


The Prince and the Pauper

by dandelionwhiskey



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medieval, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Bottom Dean, Drama, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Fingerfucking, Fluff and Smut, Frottage, Hints of Gadreel/Sam, M/M, Romance, Top Castiel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-21
Updated: 2015-03-16
Packaged: 2018-03-02 13:55:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 30,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2814398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dandelionwhiskey/pseuds/dandelionwhiskey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When murmurs in the kingdom started to gain volume, Prince Castiel had to make a quick decision to protect his people from a tyrannical ruler.  He stumbled across Dean, the handsome beggar in the marketplace, and an idea began to form.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Huge thanks to Michelle, aka [unholyseraphs](http://unholyseraphs.tumblr.com/) for being an incredible beta.

Castiel really was a very good prince. 

He tended to all his princely duties with courtesy and sincerity. He attended balls, sat at his father’s side during tournaments, and was often seen patronizing the marketplaces in his kingdom. 

When his father was away on business in neighboring kingdoms, Castiel took the throne and consulted his advisors and made sound, healthy choices for his people. Sometimes they were more difficult and ended up in shackles, but his record was clean of executions.

His father didn’t believe in such things. 

There were whispers among the people that when Castiel was ruling, the crime spiked, as the prince never had any intention of sending anyone to the gallows. His advisors often implored him to make harsher decisions to keep control of his kingdom, but Castiel steadfastly refused.

“Your Majesty,” one of his least favorite advisors, Chancellor Michael, said in a pinched, flat tone. “It is imperative that you exercise your authority properly. If your father-”

“My father isn’t here,” Castiel replied coolly. “And I doubt the kingdom will fall in a fortnight because I sentenced an apple thief to farm work instead of a hanging.”

His chancellor’s eyes fell to the ground as he mumbled an insincere apology. Castiel did know why his father employed Michael, but he couldn’t help but wish it wasn’t so. Most of his officials were pleasant and agreeable, allowing Castiel to run court with his intentions, but he supposed it was the nature of the position to butt heads occasionally. 

The castle they lived in was sprawling, pristine, tended to by a myriad of loyal staff to keep its appearance intimidating. The hill it sat upon loomed high over their kingdom, nearby villages unable to avoid seeing its banners, even miles out. They were a generally well-liked family, despite the ruling differences between Castiel and his father.

The doors to the court began to swing open and Castiel saw Michael startle, looking to their docket for the day to see who might be interrupting them. Castiel hadn’t thought they were seeing anyone else. He looked to his cryer, who had a hand cupped to his cheek as he yelled, “Announcing-”

“Oh, come off it, Inias,” Castiel heard his chamberlain scold. “You don’t have to announce me, you twat.”

Castiel chuckled but Michael looked positively livid. “Balthazar, you cannot use such language in the royal court, let alone in front of the prince,” he said sharply.

Balthazar rolled his eyes and swept up to the throne, taking his place on the other side. “I don’t think the prince minds a bit of levity after spending all morning with you,” he replied brightly. 

“It’s fine,” Castiel agreed as he held up a hand to stop Michael’s oncoming rant in its tracks. “It’s fine, Chancellor. It’s just us here.”

“Thirty guards and countless servants,” Michael reminded him. “You are rarely alone, Your Majesty. I’m begging you to show some dignity.”

Balthazar snorted. “Begging for dignity. Isn’t that a wonderful irony?”

Castiel ignored Michael’s reddening face and regarded his chamberlain. “What can I help you with?” 

Balthazar drew out a parchment and briefly scanned it. “Your duties around the castle today happen to be extremely light,” he began. “The ball isn’t for another month so preparations haven’t yet begun. Perhaps today would be a good chance to go into town.”

Castiel considered this. The sun had been buttery warm when he rose this morning, casting a stream of sparkling rays across his chamber. The idea of being out in it sounded impossible to refuse. “That’s a wonderful idea,” he agreed with a short nod. “Prepare the carriages and send Samandriel when they arrive. I’m going to change into something worthy of travel.”

He was sure Michael had protests, but he declined to hear them as he stood and nodded to his guard. He was escorted back to his chamber to change clothes, which he did without an attendant.

Castiel loved to travel into the city. His clothes were always lighter, softer, and he was able to be among the horses for a short time. Really, though, it was about being among the people. His kingdom was brimming with talented, intelligent citizens that he was constantly impressed with. Their crafts and goods were unlike anything he’d seen on his travels. Their fruit tasted the sweetest, their breads the flakiest. Castiel was proud to call it his.

The ride down went quickly. He declined to ride alone, preferring the company of his guard. His knight-captain had been kind enough to lend him Gadreel for the day, to Castiel’s pleasure. The man was fiercely loyal; he’d gone from page, to squire, to knight all within the walls of the castle. He was on the serious side, but deeply intuitive.

“Your Grace,” Gadreel said as he peered out the carriage window. “We’ve arrived. The people are excited.”

“As am I,” Castiel said honestly, and he could swear Gadreel nearly smiled. The carriage lurched to a halt, and Castiel patiently waited for his cryer to announce himself and Gadreel before clambering out of the carriage behind his guard.

The sun hit him first, before the clapping and excited cries from the crowd. He smiled broadly and nodded to them, allowing Gadreel to lead him toward the marketplace. He preferred to walk, take in all the trades, talk with his people.

“It’s an honor, Your Majesty,” said a woman to his left, in a rushed tone. He turned to her and inclined his head, reaching out to take her hand. Gadreel twitched toward him, perhaps to stop him from touching anyone, but remained still at his side. 

“The honor is mine, my lady.” Castiel was briefly concerned she might faint, but she managed to regain her composure as he continued through the crowd. 

The marketplace was bustling, a gentle layer of dust and dirt kicked up around the pathways as patrons made their way through. The sun beat down warm and refreshing, a welcome change from the darkness of the castle halls. Castiel breathed in the air as he was called out to from the booths he passed. 

“Your Majesty,” they would call, “homemade spices, fit for our future king.”

“Handblown glass, Your Grace,” another said, “journeyman made.”

“Prince Castiel, you simply must feel our silk scarves.”

A red-haired child bumped hard into Castiel’s hip and fell to the ground with a thump. Tears sprang to her wide brown eyes, but Castiel swept down and lifted her to her feet. “Be careful,” he chided gently. She nodded, cheeks pink, and broke back into the crowd to find her mother.

Laughing quietly to himself, Castiel moved on to visit the merchant stands, including the less vocal ones. He intended to purchase a few goods for himself and his father. His eye caught a light silk scarf, dotted with a pattern akin to a butterfly’s wings. He bought it for Balthazar, knowing his penchant for the finer things. He considered buying one for Michael, but Gadreel shook his head. 

“You could purchase him a device to remove the stick from his-”

“Gadreel,” Castiel scolded through laughter.

His knight smirked. “Deepest apologies, Your Majesty.”

“Better be careful,” a voice said from the crowd. “For that type of heresy the prince might sentence you to a massage.”

Gadreel’s smile was gone instantly as he turned to the crowd. “Show yourself,” he commanded.

“Yeah, or what?” The man said snidely, “you’ll throw me to the gallows? Come off it.”

“Gadreel,” Castiel said softly, “it’s fine-”

But the man was not done. People were turning to look on, watching as he shouted. “Hey, Prince Castiel, what’s the price for murdering my wife? A banquet dinner?”

“It is not fine,” his guard growled, moving toward the crowd. “He is defaming the crown.”

“His complaint is that I’m too kind to my citizens,” Castiel argued, but even to his own ears this sounded like an excuse. It was a criticism he was used to hearing, mostly from Michael, but occasionally heralds brought reports of those underground whispers from his kingdom. “Leave it.”

With a grunt and curt nod, Gadreel stared hard at the ground. “As you wish, Your Majesty.” He was just this side of pouting, practically vibrating with anger.

Castiel clicked his tongue and began toward the farmer’s stands. “Don’t be like that. Come, let’s find some lunch.”

But Castiel’s spirits were decidedly lower. His people had the right to express their grievances, of course, but he had a difficult time understanding why this upset them so much. He was a kind ruler, a reprieve from his father’s iron fist. He would think any rational person would be pleased with that.

He’d given Gadreel the slip to find his favorite fruit stand, run by an older woman whose sons worked the orchards. She greeted him with a familiar smile, taking his hand between hers in greeting. She had sun-worn skin, wrinkled and tan, and the kindest eyes Castiel had ever seen. 

“Good day to you, my lady,” he said, eyes flickering across the barrels of apples. “I see the summer has been treating you well.”

“More than, Your Majesty,” she replied happily. “With your endorsements we can hardly go a day without selling out.”

This news delighted him. “Have you thought of expanding? Now that you have the coin perhaps you can purchase more land.”

She smiled softly. “We’ve considered the idea, Your Majesty,” she said simply. Castiel suspected there was more to the story than she was sharing. He let it be, though, and continued to look over the lush fruits she had on display. He was just filling a sack with apples when he noticed a bustling in the booth next to them.

It was a fishmonger’s stand, judging from the smell. Long, gorgeous silver trout hung from the roof, as well as barrels of some smaller fish that Castiel could not identify. He wasn’t looking at the fish, however. He was looking at the young man behind the booth, sneaking fish from the barrel into a pouch at his hip.

The young man was nimble, careful, watching the merchant’s movements before snagging the fish. He had bright eyes, the color of the forest canopy, which Castiel could see even from where he was standing. The glaring sun cast his face in shadows, but Castiel could see his cheeks smudged with dirt and his short hair matted and unruly. He was handsome under the grime, determined and focused.

Castiel’s heart took a moment to resume beating. 

The stranger was finished. He was just flattening himself down, ready to slip back into the shadows, when he froze and looked right at Castiel.

A brief moment passed where they just looked at each other, Castiel with an apple held weakly halfway up to his mouth, and the boy on the far side of terrified. Castiel took one tentative step forward and the boy vanished into the shadows, gone in an instant.

The prince felt strangely hollow, as if he’d made a grave misstep. Before he knew it, he was running out and past the fishmonger booth, desperate to find any alleyway or alcove the thief may have hidden in.

He did find an alley. It was dark and smelled of horse manure and Castiel set down it without a thought to his safety. He tried to stay quiet, eyes darting around for any sign of the boy, but came up short. He was just ready to give in and lament how silly he was being when he saw it; an old crate leaning up against the stone wall.

Castiel approached it tentatively, tilting it back from the wall and seeing exactly what he expected: A hole in the wall big enough for a man, leading into the back of what looked like an old storage barn. Castiel entered.

He blinked into the light for a moment. It was brighter in here than the alley, sun streaming in from holes in the roof. In the corner, on thatches of hay, was the thief. He was pulling the fish from his pouch and laying them on a cloth, likely to wrap and cook later. Castiel opened his mouth to say something, but words wouldn’t come to mind.

“You shouldn’t have followed me here,” the young man said, voice deep and troubled. He hadn’t turned around. “It’s too dangerous.”

“I wanted,” Castiel began, but he didn’t know what to say. He wasn’t sure why he’d followed the thief. “What is your name?”

“Dean,” he answered with no hesitation. “But I’m serious, you should get out of here. It’s not safe. Uh, Your Majesty.”

Castiel’s tension dropped and he found himself smiling. “I appreciate your concern, Dean, but I’ll be all right. I’m more concerned about you.”

Dean did turn, then, finding Castiel’s eyes with his own. He looked sad and bedraggled, like perhaps just a bath would wash half of him away. “I don’t need your concern,” he said, and realized his tone was too sharp. “I can take care of myself.”

“I can see that,” Castiel nodded. “Through the fruit of someone else’s labor.”

Dean bristled. “If I had the coin I would have paid,” he said. 

“Please don’t arrest him,” a small voice said from behind Castiel. The prince jumped and he turned to see a boy of perhaps fourteen, dark, doe-like eyes round with fear. “He was just-.”

“Sammy,” Dean said roughly, “keep your mouth shut.”

The boy instantly closed his lips, looking ashamed. Castiel looked between them, and the resemblance was clear. They had to be brothers. Dean, older, protective.

“I’m not going to arrest him,” he said firmly. Sam blinked.

“You aren’t?” He asked, fidgeting. “Really?”

“Really,” Castiel said kindly. “How can I punish a man for feeding his family?” 

Sam seemed to melt with relief, but Dean’s brows were still arched skeptically. Castiel couldn’t help but wonder what happened to these two that made them so suspicious and scared. His heart broke with the very idea. 

“Thank you, Prince Castiel,” Sam said with his arms crossed over his stomach. “It’s true what they say about you, that you’re a fair ruler.”

Dean made a disbelieving noise. “Is that what you hear, Sammy? Word on the street is Prince Castiel is so lenient you can get away with murder.”

Castiel stiffened as Sam set horrified eyes on his brother. “Dean!” He said warningly. “Are you insane?”

But Dean just shrugged and continued laying out his stolen fish. 

“He’s right.” Even Castiel couldn’t ignore the tone of shame in his voice.“That is what I hear the people saying.” Dean seemed to sag a little, maybe with regret, and turned his smudged face up to meet the prince’s eyes.

“Look, I’m sorry,” he said flatly. “I didn’t mean to - whatever. You seem like a nice person.”

“Thank you,” Castiel began to say, and Sam nearly barrelled over him with his next words.

“Dean is really talented,” he was saying quickly, “he can smithe armor better than any I’ve ever seen.”

Sam’s enthusiasm seemed to only irritate his brother. “Sam, shut up. I haven’t smithed in years.”

A pout took over Sam’s face, bottom lip jutting out. “But you were the best,” he insisted. “All you need is a smithery and you could-.”

“Stop it,” Dean said, “don’t do this.” It sounded like a tired argument, one they’ve had a thousand times before. “It’s not going to happen.”

Sam made a frustrated sound. “Dean, we’ve been trying to get to court for years, and now we have Prince Castiel right here.” 

With an attempt to hide his smile, Castiel reached out to grip Sam’s shoulder. “I understand,” he said patiently. “But I can’t grant Dean property with no cause other than sympathy. There are many talented artisans in the same position as you.”

Sam nodded, but didn’t look happy about it. Dean looked similarly grim. Castiel suddenly realized he was still holding a bag of apples from the fruit stand and without a second thought, held them out to Sam. “Please, take these.”

“No,” Dean said, voice firm and unrelenting. 

“Dean! There’s two dozen apples in here!” 

“No. We won’t accept aid from the crown. We can take care of ourselves,” Dean insisted.

“Your Majesty!” A gasping, angry Gadreel was at the hole in the wall, struggling through it as his armor caught on the crags. “What do you think you’re doing? Have you lost your mind?” He sounded erratic, scared, and Castiel felt a pang of guilt.

Likely frightened by the full armor and sword at Gadreel’s hip, Sam had scrambled over to his brother with wide eyes. Dean was also suddenly on the defensive as he maneuvered to hide the stolen food from the knight. Castiel held up an assured hand toward his angry knight, trying also to block the scene behind him so Dean could pack everything up.

“I’m fine, Gadreel,” he said, but this did not placate as much as Castiel would have liked.

Gadreel opened his mouth, likely to reprimand the prince, but caught sight of the bag of apples in Castiel’s fist. “They said the prince ran off with a bag of apples and I didn’t believe it. Did you - did you steal those?” He nearly screeched. 

“Of course not,” Castiel said blithely, then paused. “Well, sort of. Accidentally, though.”

“We must return to the stand,” Gadreel demanded, “and pay the merchant.” Castiel rolled his eyes.

“Of course we’ll pay the merchant. Calm yourself.” 

“Calm myself?” Gadreel repeated, mocking. Castiel realized there must be more to his frantic behavior. “Your Majesty, I’ve just received a crow from the king and when I could not find you…”

A letter from his father, midday, midweek, was unheard of. He’d been in negotiations for days, and Castiel wondered if perhaps there had been a breakthrough. “What did it say?”

The mention of the king had both Sam and Dean sitting up a little straighter, rapt with the whispered conversation. Gadreel did not seem pleased at their presence, leaning in a bit closer to Castiel and lowering his voice. 

“Your Majesty, the whispers from the underground have gotten louder. Other kingdoms are taking notice of your leniency.”

Castiel could feel his face fall into a frown of its own volition. He hesitated before his question. “So, what is the consequence?”

Gadreel looked exasperated. “Castiel,” he said, forgoing the titles. “If you don’t start showing some more authority, the king wants to implement a Justiciar.”

Castiel felt his blood run cold. A justiciar would make rulings in his place, act as the king’s voice. It would strip him of his judicial power and leave his people in the hands of a stranger. Moreover, it would be humiliating and his kingship threatened. He shook his head.

“My father would never do that.”

Gadreel’s eyes flickered to the two boys behind Castiel. “Perhaps we should discuss this matter more privately,” he suggested. Castiel shook his head.

“We will discuss it now. What are the terms of my father’s threat?”

Gadreel shifted uncomfortably. Dean and Sam were deadly quiet, knelt on the ground, watching the scene with abject hopelessness.

“You are to be more princely,” Gadreel said finally. “You are to announce a marriage at the ball - your father has selected many candidates,” he added grimly, “and discontinue your frequent trips to the city. You also must be more harsh in your judgements.”

Castiel gaped at his knight. He was to be married off in a month and change his entire manner of ruling? “What brought this on?” He whispered, mostly to himself.

“Threats of war.” Gadreel’s voice was weary. “Your father is in negotiations with several of the neighboring kingdoms. Your… softness is threatening his demands.”

Dean made a noise behind Castiel that suggested his incredible disrespect for that answer. He received a glare from Gadreel as a reward. “Hold your tongue,” he ordered. 

With an overwhelming feeling of dread, Castiel’s mind reeled with how to calm the situation between his knight and the boys before it got out of hand. 

“What does marriage have to do with it?” Sam asked, and Dean shouldered him roughly. “Ow! I just mean-.”

“It’s highborn stuff,” Dean muttered. “Connecting powerful houses and choosing partners who potentially rule in your place. It’s about power.”

Distress edged at Castiel’s mind. “I’m not going to want to marry anyone my father picks,” he fretted. It would be political, he was sure, and there had to be a way to stop it. “What if I choose my own suitor?”

His knight pursed his lips. “He would have to be of nobility, of course,” he said, clearly thinking aloud, “preferably a Duke. You may be able to get away with a Marquis if his land is fruitful.” He paused. “Did you have someone in mind?”

Castiel did not. He’d been at the favor of many lords and ladies in his time, but his desire to settle down had never been prominent. He rarely considered people for permanency, and at that moment he was drawing a complete blank.

“Wait, ‘he’?” Dean said with an arched eyebrow. “What about heirs?”

It wasn’t out of the ordinary for men to appreciate each other’s company, but as nobility it was often expected to produce an heir. Castiel dreaded the thought and always assumed he had some apt cousin who would take the role after his passing.

Without given Castiel a chance to explain, Gadreel growled and bore down on the boys. He looked like he was about to boil right out of his armor. “Did I not tell you to hold your tongue? Prince Castiel, who are these peasants?”

Castiel glared at Gadreel and decided to use his commanding voice, sharp and clear. “Leave them alone.” 

But the wheels were clearly already turning in Gadreel’s mind. Castiel could see him hatching a plan and he knew it wouldn’t be a favorable one. “Perhaps you could make an example of these thieves,” he suggested. “Imprison them.”

“What? No!” Sam yelped before Dean could slap a hand over his mouth. He struggled against his brother, but Dean was already talking.

“Sam never steals,” he said, “just take me if you’re going to take someone.” Sam sagged in defeat.

Castiel’s heart was racing as all this information rattled around in his head. A Justiciar? Imprison these boys for thieving a few fish? Marriage?

His eyes met Dean’s. They were narrowed, stubborn, his arms protectively encircling his brother. They were educated, talented, and filled with devotion for each other. Dean had smithing skill. Sam was curious and loving. He had taken all this in from just their brief interaction and Castiel could not bear to lock them in the dungeons.

“I’m not separating them,” he said to Gadreel, though he was looking at Dean. There was a flicker of relief in his eyes. “But they will come to the castle with us.”

///

The carriage ride was awkward.

Dean was hip to hip with Castiel while Sam was alongside Gadreel, his face pressed against the carriage window as he watched the green countryside pass them by. They had called the carriage to meet them in the marketplace, after Castiel had repaid the apple merchant and apologized for forgetting to do so earlier. She’d waved him off and insisted he could steal from her any day.

They’d smuggled Sam and Dean into the carriage first, under no watchful eye, and then Castiel joined them among the fanfare, led by Gadreel. Dean didn’t enjoy being kept a secret but Sam was delighted, intrigued. 

“I’ve never been to the castle,” he gushed, watching the rolling hills pass them. “I’ve never been out of the city. I’ve heard stories, and it sounds magnificent.”

Castiel chuckled. “I hope you enjoy your stay.”

“In the dungeon?” Dean snapped. “I’m sure it will be positively divine.” His voice dripped with sarcasm.

Castiel shifted uncomfortably. He hadn’t entirely decided what to do with the boys yet. Gadreel would have them punished, but Castiel could not find it in his heart to do so. His mind had been reeling ever since he received his father’s news. 

He could not allow a Justiciar to take his place in judicial matters. It would eliminate any amount of respect he’d built over the past few years. His people would never take him seriously as a ruler and his name would be a joke. More importantly, to him, his people would be relying on a stranger to make choices on their behalf. It would be a travesty.

Castiel only had to tighten his laces slightly to please his father. He would fill the dungeons, if he needed to, and perhaps make use of the stocks in the town square. He could exile more citizens, he supposed. He would not sentence hanging, he was sure, but the thought still loomed over his head. 

And then there was the matter of marriage. He would have to find a duke willing to partner with him and his kingdom. He was sure there were many, but he would need to be suitable and even agreeable if Castiel was lucky. He would have to be someone with strong opinion and heavy presence. He would need to be impressive.

Castiel’s eyes fell automatically to Dean. His jaw was set stubbornly, eyes locked on Castiel as the carriage bounced up the pathway. Castiel was eager to see him after he’d been washed of the dirt of the city. 

He’d allowed Sam and Dean to gather their belongings, what little of those they had, and bring them along. Dean was partial to a very old piece of parchment, singed and dirty, while Sam had clutched desperately at a pendant necklace. The emblem was unfamiliar to Castiel, but that didn’t matter. Sam still grasped it now, even with the boyish smile on his face, eyes lit with excitement.

Dean must have been about twenty-one, Castiel guessed. That placed him eight years below Castiel and at the age of knighthood. Castiel had a sneaking suspicion that Dean wouldn’t accept knighthood even if he was offered it. It would be impossible, regardless, as he had none of the proper training or attitude for such duties.

Sam would be an excellent attendant, Castiel mused. He was polite and enthusiastic with a beaming smile that rivaled the sun. Castiel could see him even rise to steward if he pleased. Sam would likely be more interested in the idea than Dean.

Castiel sighed. Dean would be such an issue. He had to blend in at the castle in work he felt suited to, something that wasn’t demeaning or too full of circumstance. He wondered if Dean would like to work with the horses, with his hands. 

“Dean,” he began, and he was fixed with such a loathing stare that he forgot what he was going to ask. 

“Your Grace,” Dean replied sarcastically. Sam shot him an angry look that nearly matched Gadreel’s. 

“Show some respect,” Gadreel grumbled. “This man is going to save your life.”

“To what end?” Dean asked, annoyance tracing his words. “To sit in a dungeon, to eat scraps? What’s the difference from where we were?”

“I’m not going to imprison you,” Castiel said again. 

“Keeping us in the castle isn’t imprisonment?”

Castiel frowned. He supposed they wouldn’t be allowed out, not even to visit the town. He didn’t trust that they wouldn’t return, and that would be detrimental to his standing. There had to be a solution, but it was just out of his grasp.

“I want to put you to work,” he sighed. Gadreel was going to get frown lines if he didn’t let up on the dour expression. “To do something you’d like to do. I want you to be staff, not prisoners. I will pay you.”

Sam was practically wriggling in his seat, clearly thinking of all the things he wanted to do around the castle. And about wages, a roof, a bed, Castiel was sure. But Dean was not as pleased.

“You’re paying us to keep our mouths shut,” he accused. Castiel started; he hadn’t even considered that. “We could ruin you, get that Justiciar in. You’d be a joke.”

“I’ve had enough of you,” Gadreel warned menacingly, but Dean just shrugged, unaffected. 

“Dean,” Castiel said gently. “I don’t want to be your enemy. I want us to be able to work together.”

He didn’t say anything to that, but some of the edge left his expression. Castiel thought maybe that got through to him, if even just a little. Dean seemed to appreciate mutual respect, frankness. Castiel would try very hard to remember that. 

A thought struck him sudden and sharp. He didn’t even allow himself a chance to second-guess it before he was mapping it out in his head, planning, excited. Gadreel noticed the change in his expression and gave him a questioning look, but Castiel was distracted.

“Gadreel,” he said after a moment, “I’ve an idea. I will discuss it further with you when we return to the castle.”

The knight nodded slowly. Suspicion clouded Dean's features as his arms crossed in front of his chest over his torn clothes. 

“Have Sam and Dean brought in through the tunnels,” he said, “and up through the back passages to my quarters.”

“The ones you would use to sneak out?”

“The same,” Castiel confirmed. Dean looked mildly impressed and Castiel couldn’t help but feel a thrill of pride at that. He wasn’t all nobility and manners, after all.

When they arrived, Castiel left the carriage alone and called for his attendant. He told Samandriel to heat a bath in his quarters and to tell the kitchens to send up a platter of food. Samandriel did as he was told, scuttling off to the kitchens. Balthazar met him at the door, wearing a sour expression.

“I expect Gadreel received the same crow as us,” he said mournfully. His loyalty did make Castiel's heart swell, but he just gave his chamberlain a wry look.

“Don’t fear, Balthazar,” he insisted as they walked through the corridor, “I have a solution, I believe. If I am to be married, it will be to a man of my own choosing.”

“Do you have your eye on someone, Your Majesty?” Balthazar asked, positively lecherous.

Castiel nodded. “There was a duke at Lady Naomi’s ball last solstice,” he said, the lie spilling off his tongue easily. “He owns land to the south. It’s ripe with farmland and has a small village - they are smiths.”

Balthazar hummed, considering this. “Smiths are a bit… grimy,” he said with his nose scrunched up. “They are an excellent resource, however. If this is your decision, I can have a crow sent with your intentions.”

“No need,” Castiel smiled, ignoring Balthazar’s slight against the smiths. “I have already done so. He’ll arrive at sundown.”

Balthazar squawked. “Sundown? Your Majesty, that’s in only a few hours! We have to prepare for his arrival.”

“Then prepare,” Castiel said, and thought he must look manic. He was being rash, stupid; telling the castle to prepare for a guest when he wasn’t even sure one would be arriving. But the opportunity was there and he was determined to take advantage of it. He would not let his kingdom fall.

\\\\\

Gadreel brought the boys to his quarters minutes later. Castiel had set up the partition and commanded them to bathe - the tub was enormous, comfortable, and Castiel had Samandriel prepare fresh water to switch out if necessary. The boys disappeared and Castiel turned excitedly to Gadreel.

“I’ve found a potential solution to our problem,” he said firmly. “I’ll need your support.”

“Of course, Your Majesty,” Gadreel promised immediately. Castiel felt awash with affection for him. 

“I’ve arranged for the arrival of a duke from the South,” he began carefully, “who I intend to marry.” 

Gadreel’s eyes widened. “Your Majesty, that is wonderful news. I didn’t know you had a suitor in mind.”

“I didn’t,” Castiel said, his eyes sliding toward the partition. “We only just recently met.”

Gadreel froze. His face was set in such an appalled expression that Castiel couldn’t help but find amusement in the situation. He went from confused to angry to exasperated within just seconds. Castiel knew, of course he knew, that it was an insane idea. But he also knew he’d have to suffer through Gadreel’s protests. He braced himself.

After a very long moment, one in which Castiel was concerned that he may have broken the knight’s mind, Gadreel straightened, taking stance. “As you wish, Your Majesty.”

Castiel blinked once. “Really, Gadreel?”

“It is a suitable idea. It will keep him out of trouble. If it fails, it will be no less humiliating than the implementation of the Justiciar. Moreover, it is your idea and I am pledged to your will.”

The prince stared at Gadreel for a moment, unable to really comprehend his loyalty. “Gadreel,” he breathed, “I-.”

“No need, Your Majesty,” Gadreel interrupted. “You just tell me what it is you need from me and it will be done.”

“It would probably help if you pretended you weren’t in favor of the idea,” Castiel said with a sigh. “It will be hard enough to convince Dean.”

“What?” Dean said from the other side of the partition. “What are you guys talking about?”

But it was then that the scullery maid arrived with the food platter, filled with cheeses and grapes, bread, sliced chicken, and a carafe of wine. It smelled warm and delicious, and Castiel thanked her sincerely before sending her back to the kitchens.

“Are you finished bathing?” Castiel asked and received an affirmative from both brothers. “There are clean clothes folded on the bench.”

First to emerge from behind the partition was Sam, hair wet and curling, his squire’s clothing billowing and loose on his frame. He looked very handsome, broad in the chest and clearly growing into his bones. With the dirt clear from his skin, he looked pink and healthy, smiling.

“These are so comfortable,” he said happily, tugging at the clothes. “So soft. Thank you, Your Majesty.”

“You’re welcome, Sam,” Castiel said, squeezing Sam’s shoulder. Gadreel made an approving noise, clearly impressed with Sam’s manners. His smirk quickly dropped, however, when Dean appeared.

The breeches hugged his legs, displaying his defined muscles no doubt from years of running and hiding to survive. He wore a light tan tunic, belted at his narrow waist and sleeves cuffed right at his wrists. The tunic dipped at the throat, just enough to hint at Dean’s collarbone. His face was clean and tan, the slightest stubble dusting his cheeks. He turned his bright eyes on Castiel, and Castiel could not tear his eyes away.

“Wow, Dean, you look great,” Sam said, and Castiel silently agreed. Dean fidgeted with the belt of the tunic.

“Feels weird,” he said, pulling at the clothing. But his voice was clear of anger, instead gently amused, like he’d never expected to wear clothing like this. He looked toward Gadreel. “Sorry, I guess that was disrespectful. Thanks, Prince Castiel.”

Castiel jumped at hearing his name, having been completely distracted by Dean’s appearance. “Oh, um, you’re welcome, Dean. I’m happy you find them suitable.”

Dean nodded and Gadreel physically restrained himself as the boy went and sat on Castiel’s tabouret. Sam hesitated, unsure as to whether Dean was breaking some rule, looking between the other men in the room. Castiel gave him an assured look.

“All right,” Dean said, leaning forward. “I heard you talking about me. What’s the plan?”

Castiel cleared his throat. It had seemed like such a good idea, and now he was having a difficult time articulating it. He stalled by pouring Dean and Sam both a goblet of wine. Dean drank it readily while Sam tentatively sniffed and sipped slowly. 

“Dean,” Castiel began, watching as Dean dug into the food on the platter. He tore off pieces of bread and passed them to Sam, like he must have done thousands of times before. It was tirelessly endearing. “As you remember, I must announce a betrothed at next month’s ball if I am to keep my judicial allowances.”

Dean nodded and popped a grape between his lips. The distraction was _completely_ unnecessary but Castiel could only hope that Dean didn't notice him track that movement with his eyes.

“However, there are no suitable matches for me,” Castiel went on, managing to keep his voice even, “at least none that I find agreeable enough to share my title with.” 

“I guess it would be ridiculous for your family to allow you to marry for love,” Dean said blithely. A dark chuckle escaped Castiel's mouth before he could stop it. 

“You are correct,” he said with a shrug, a gesture so casual that it seemed to hold Dean's attention. “So, I am going to attempt to cheat the system. But I’ll need your help.”

The brothers narrowed their eyes with the same expression of confusion. The evidence of their kinship was so readily apparent and endearing to the prince that he didn't bother resisting a smile. “How could I possibly help?” Dean asked skeptically. 

“I want to invent a duke to marry,” Castiel said, all at once, feeling relieved that it was finally out in the air between them. “And I would like you to play that role.”

The grape that Dean had been about to slide into his mouth fell to the carpet. A palpable silence fell. He stared at Castiel, agape, looking just as baffled as Castiel expected him to. “You want me to what?” Dean almost shouted, ringing loud in the quiet room.

Castiel attempted not to cringe at Dean’s incredulity. “It would be mutually beneficial,” he explained hurriedly. “If you act the duke and agree to be my betrothed, I can maintain control over the court and you and your brother stay out of jail." _Or worse,_ he thought bitterly. He sighed. “You would be saving the kingdom from vicious judgement.”

Dean still looked displeased. “All I have to do is marry you,” he said flatly.

Castiel hummed thoughtfully. “You don’t actually have to complete the ceremony,” he said. “I only need for you to pretend. Allow me to announce it at the ball. You will still be your own man, make your own choices, but you will need to keep up the appearances in public.”

Dean looked as if he was about to protest, but Sam cut him off with a small voice. “Dean,” he started, and his brother looked to him. “Dean, you should do it. You would be protecting us from that Justiciar. You’d be protecting us from the gallows.”

The eldest brother found Castiel’s eyes. “How long?” He croaked.

Castiel felt a surge of heat in his chest, something anxious and delighted. “Until my father revokes his decision.”

“What if he never does?” Dean sounded hollow and Castiel felt a pang of guilt for being the reason behind it.

“I will allow you to rescind after one year,” Castiel decided. “If we cannot progress our political standing by then, I will marry one of my father’s suggested suitors, and you and your brother will go free.”

A silence ensued that Castiel was dying to break, but he allowed Dean to think as he shifted his weight from foot to foot. Sam was sitting close to his brother, maybe sharing some sort of silent support. A panicked thought crossed Castiel's mind; one where Dean said no, one where he chose death over the prince's company. He didn't want to think of it but the oppressive quiet around them wasn't helping to distract him. Thankfully, after a moment, Gadreel cleared his throat. “That is a generous offer, Your Grace.”

Castiel smiled ruefully. It was wonderful that Gadreel was so firmly on his side, but all he really wanted to hear was Dean’s affirmation of the plan. 

“All right,” Dean said, finally, blessedly. “I’ll do it.”

Castiel felt relief and trepidation fill him to the brim. Dean had said yes, they had Gadreel’s support; the plan had a decent chance of success. A smile broke out over his face before he could stop it. “Thank you, Dean,” he breathed. “Thank you.”

Sam gave his brother a warm grin. “You’re doing the right thing, Dean,” he said sincerely.

“Yeah,” Dean said bitterly, eyeing Castiel. “We’ll see.”

“What is your surname?” Gadreel asked the brothers. “We’ll have to refer to you as such.”

Castiel's mind was reeling with all of the things to be done. They would have to create a back story, something believable and difficult to confirm. Dean had terrible manners and would probably need lessons and reminders as to acting properly among nobility. The idea was startlingly terrible, all of a sudden, and Castiel tried not to completely lose his mind.

“Winchester,” Dean said simply, and offered nothing more than that. He and Sam exchanged an undecipherable look. 

The sound of it was like bells to Castiel’s ears and immediately assuaged all of his bubbling dread. “Duke Winchester," Castiel bowed slightly toward Dean. He enjoyed the way the name felt on his tongue.

“Prince Castiel,” Dean smirked, nodding his head in return.


	2. Chapter 2

Castiel had debriefed the Winchesters prior to their carriage “arrival” in the evening. They were Duke and Lord Winchester, Sam taking the lesser title respectively. Their father, the previous duke, was killed at war and they inherited the land shortly after.

They lived a quiet and unintrusive life at their manor in the South. They ran their farmland fairly and efficiently, and their smiths produced workable weapons and armor that was sold in other southern villages. They rarely made it to the city as it was a great distance and unnecessary to their trade.

Duke Winchester had attended Lady Naomi’s solstice ball in the spring, where he caught Castiel’s eye. They had corresponded in secret by crow and had fallen for one other. 

Dean had thought it rather sentimental. “So, our marriage isn’t political?”

Castiel hoped color wasn’t rising to his cheeks. “No,” he said, wary of Dean’s reply. But the Winchester just shrugged, agreeing to the terms. Castiel beamed.

Dean and Sam snuck back out through the hidden corridor with Gadreel. They decided to not arrive by carriage, instead claiming they walked from the nearest village where they’d taken rest after their journey earlier that day. It was Dean’s idea, and it was quite clever.

Castiel was thrumming with excitement. The castle was dressed beautifully for their arrival, fit for any actual duke who may have been visiting. The servants were present and all smiles, not showing a hint of their frustration at the last minute dressings. 

“This is lovely,” Castiel told a sleepy Balthazar. “My compliments to you and Seneschal Milton.” 

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Balthazar said tiredly. “I must admit, I am eager to meet the man that inspires you so.”

“Announcing,” his cryer called down the Great Hall, “Duke and Lord Winchester, tending to the invitation issued by Prince Castiel.” 

Dean entered, handsome as ever, with a sword at his hip that must have been on loan from Gadreel. He wore a blue sash across his chest, and Castiel noticed it was pinned with the emblem that Sam loved so dearly. Genius, he thought with affection, approaching Dean with Balthazar at his side.

“Duke Winchester,” Castiel greeted, “an honor. Thank you for responding to my invitation.”

“Pleasure’s mine,” Dean said, voice thick and velvety and Castiel felt a shiver tickle down his spine. Gadreel must have given him a crash course in the introductory manners; they were the most important outside of dinner. 

Sam peeked out from behind Dean, hair now dry and curling around his ears. He looked slightly unruly for a Lord, but his countenance easily made up for it.

“Hello, Prince Castiel,” he greeted politely.

“Lord Winchester,” the prince said kindly. He swept his arm to the side. “My Chamberlain, Balthazar.” Dean inclined his head and Castiel noticed Balthazar’s wide, appreciative eyes.

“Charmed,” Balthazar drawled, and Castiel had half a mind to stomp on his foot. Instead he merely smiled, moving to Dean’s side to press at the small of his back, guiding him to the drawing room. 

“Let’s have a drink before dinner, shall we?”

“A tour of the castle would be agreeable,” Dean said. That was also clever; Dean would need to be able to know the mapping of the castle if he were to stay here and be able to sneak around. 

Castiel called for goblets, filled to the brim with mead, and began leading them through the castle. 

Sam had a particular penchant for the library, stacked high with tomes and novels lit by enormous candelabras. Its atmosphere was calming and warm, and Castiel expected Sam would enjoy spending time there among the books. 

Dean was polite and charming, his comments insightful and well-spoken, leaving Castiel impressed. He stayed close to the prince, casually affectionate but unoffensive. The closeness was thrilling, Dean’s hands brushing against his arm or back, his smile open and inviting. He was playing the part perfectly.

“These will be your chambers,” Castiel said, leading them to the guest quarters. “Sam, yours is adjacent. If you require an attendant, we have plenty of viable choices.” 

Dean held up a hand. “That won’t be necessary. We’re not used to attendants, it would be uncomfortable.”

“Understood,” Castiel smiled. 

Dean took in his quarters; the down-filled pillows and linen sheets, feather-bed mattress pliant at his touch. He’d been sleeping on straw and stone with Sam for years, Castiel knew, so it must have seemed elaborate. 

“The canopy is beautiful,” Sam commented, likely to break the silence.

“And where are your quarters, Your Majesty?” Dean asked cheekily, and Balthazar nearly tipped over. Castiel only chuckled. 

“You needn’t worry,” Castiel replied evenly, “if you must find them I have an inclination you won’t be alone.”

“Your Grace,” Balthazar bit out and Castiel swore the tips of Dean’s ears turned pink, “perhaps we should go to the dining hall?”

Castiel turned to him brightly. “Excellent idea. I’m famished.”

Surprisingly, Dean was quiet on their way to dinner.

\\\\\

Dinner was extravagant. Castiel tried not to notice Dean murmuring instructions to Sam out of the side of his mouth, telling him which utensil was appropriate and that he had gravy smudged on the side of his face. The thumping in his chest took a significant pause when Dean’s eyes met his over a wine goblet. A small, knowing smirk crept onto Dean’s lips and it was all Castiel could do not to gape at the young man.

“You’re looking flush, Your Majesty,” Michael said with flat concern. He had made his qualms with this courtship quite apparent to Castiel at the beginning of the meal, quite sure he’d never heard of the Winchesters and was hoping his prince was putting practicality over desire.

Castiel had quieted him with a particularly affronted glare, earning an apology from his advisor. 

But having Michael draw attention to his heated cheeks was just a bit much for him to put up with. “Michael.” Castiel began slowly, loudly, “Perhaps your evening would be better suited tending to the needs of the kitchen. The maidens have a tendency to overexert themselves and may need someone to monitor their health.”

Castiel was delighted to see Dean’s face break into genuine amusement, noting with some importance that he had laugh lines around his eyes. His stony-faced advisor was standing from the table, plate clattering against the wood. 

“As you wish, Your Grace,” he said moodily. Balthazar chuckled heartily as soon as the man had left the hall, giddiness written all over his face.

“You certainly reminded him of his place.” His voice was cheery and pleased, which warmed Castiel’s heart. Regardless of his chancellor’s feelings toward him, he knew Balthazar would normally take up his side. Most of the castle staff saw Castiel as a relief against his father, who could be somewhat of a tyrant after a bad morning.

Castiel merely shrugged, holding out his goblet for the wine-bearer. “It is one of my most burdened duties,” he said solemnly, and winked toward Sam. The boy grinned into his stew. “Lord Winchester,” Castiel went on, “are you enjoying your meal?”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Sam said earnestly, his bowl nearly scraped clean. “I haven’t eaten like this in- Ow!”

Dean had stomped his foot under the table, but Sam played it off like he’d knocked his knee. Castiel smiled affectionately, urging Sam to continue.

“I just, uh, I haven’t had stew this fine since the last time we visited the North.”

Balthazar’s eyebrows rose with interest. “When was that, My Lord?”

“Lady Naomi’s solstice ball,” Dean answered for him. “Sam and I took to the marketplace and found a stand selling warm stew in freshly baked bread. I might say it held a candle to this meal.” 

Balthazar looked affronted but Castiel chuckled. “That’s because it is the same,” he said with a nod. “We snatched our new cook straight from the marketplace around that time. I’m willing to wager it’s the same recipe.” 

With wide eyes, Dean regarded Castiel with a new sense of respect. Castiel attempted not to bask in it, but it was a difficult task. It was true that they’d found their cook from the markets, and that she had the greatest stews this side of the kingdom. Castiel wondered if Dean had really enjoyed her stew before, maybe without paying for it.

Sam made a noise of pleasure. “Well, it was an excellent choice, Your Majesty,” he said happily. “I want to lick my bowl clean!”

Dean looked at his brother sharply but Balthazar was laughing as he nibbled on his hunk of bread. “You remind me of myself at your age,” he drawled.

“Balthazar, don’t insult the boy,” Castiel joked, pleased to draw another smile out of Dean. At this rate, maybe the young man would be able to actually enjoy his time spent in the castle. Perhaps he wouldn’t despise every second in Castiel’s presence. 

They drank deeply, jokes on the tips of their tongues, merriment in the air. Balthazar excused himself just before midnight, a sway in his steps as he disappeared to his quarters. Castiel dismissed the guard as well, who seemed hesitant to leave.

“To bed,” he commanded again. “No one in their right mind would assassinate me at this hour. Please, take your leave.”

They saluted and were off, leaving Dean, Sam, and Castiel at the base of the fireplace, wine and playing cards splayed out in front of them. Dean was relaxed in his chair, an arm slung lazily over the back of it, while Sam sat ramrod straight.

He was pink-cheeked, eyes narrowed as he examined the cards in front of him. Perhaps Castiel had allowed him too much wine. “Sam?” He asked softly, the fire crackling behind them. 

“M’good,” he slurred, grinning sloppily over at Dean. “I think m’gonna lose, though.”

Dean chuckled. “You already lost,” he accused. “You’ve been out of the game twenty minutes.”

A refusal was ready on his lips, that much was clear. Dean was masterfully placating him, however, enough that Sam would not be embarrassed when he recalled the conversation in the morning. 

“I think it’s time we returned to our quarters,” Dean said with amusement thick on his tongue. WIth a nod of agreement, Castiel pushed himself up to his feet and gestured for the brothers to do the same. He was dizzy with the pleasure of the evening, how light and fun it really had been. Dean was an impeccable Duke, somehow picking up on all the manners and language with hardly any reminders from Castiel at all.

And he looked at Castiel with reverence, like he should, like they were companionable. As if they’d been exchanging letters for months and were finally able to see each other. As if he’d fallen in love with Castiel at Lady Naomi’s ball and had been able to think of nothing else until they were together again.

Castiel reminded himself countless times that it was the game, the ploy, and that Dean was just really quite good at it. They knew little about each other, in the end, and Dean was truly at a disadvantage. He played, though, for the good of his brother and their future. Castiel swore to himself he would find a suitable life for them.

With a hand at the small of his back, Castiel led Dean back to his quarters while Sam leaned on his brother’s other side, chattering happily about the food and the fire. They deposited the boy in his quarters, atop his downy bed. 

Castiel watched as Dean rubbed soothing circles on his brother’s back, coaxing him out of his vest so he could sleep more comfortably. He felt suddenly ashamed, like he was looking on an intensely private moment, and he stepped backward toward the door.

“Prince Castiel,” Dean halted him in his step. There was a fire burnt to embers in Sam’s room, a low, dull heat emanating from the red glow. 

“Yes, Duke Winchester?” Castiel replied, voice soft and questioning, ever polite.

“Thank you,” he said, and it sounded every bit as earnest as Castiel was hoping. “Sam, he- he had a amazing evening. So, thanks.” The way Dean’s head was ducked cast shadows over his face, hiding his eyes from Castiel’s view.

“I was happy to have his company,” Castiel said carefully. “You two make wonderful guests.”

Dean smiled crookedly and nodded once, clearly satisfied with that answer. He moved toward the door, past Castiel and on toward his own quarters. Castiel followed to bid him goodnight, pulling Sam’s door shut softly behind him. 

Moonlight spilled in through the castle windows, bringing with it a soft breeze that chilled Castiel’s skin. He stood at Dean’s doorframe and watched as he shucked off his sash and laid it on the mattress. He knew he would eventually give the man some privacy, but watching him stretch the fatigue out of his bones was something Castiel was to take advantage of.

Dean turned to him then, a clasp loose on his shirt, that ghost of a smile still flitted across his face. “Goodnight, Prince Castiel,” he said firmly. 

There was an echoing creak that nearly made Castiel jump out of his bones, but with a glance he saw it was only an usher entering Sam’s quarters, likely to stir the fire. He breathed out and laughed to himself at his foolishness, turning back to say goodnight.

But Dean’s hand was warm and flat on Castiel’s chest and when the prince turned to face him with confusion, Dean was very much in his personal space. “Dean?” He whispered, the pounding in his chest spiking so loudly that Castiel was sure Dean could hear it.

“Shh,” Dean murmured, running his knuckles down Castiel’s cheek. “Wait a moment.”

Castiel did, frozen to the spot, blinking slowly as Dean kept his eyes on his. The creak from Sam’s door came again, and Castiel attempted to jerk away.

However, Dean’s hand was at the back of his skull, holding him in place as he settled their lips together. Castiel did not make a sound and allowed his eyes to drift shut as he took in the dry, chaste rub of Dean’s mouth. He pursed his lips carefully, gentle, and found that Dean’s bottom lip had made its way between his own. 

Dean pulled back before Castiel was prepared, and when the prince opened his eyes again he met Dean’s playful smirk. “Do you think he saw us? The usher?”

“Yes,” Castiel replied, because he was sure they’d been spotted. The ushers were dreadfully gossipy and the light from Dean’s room had practically bathed them in a portrait frame. “Dean, what-.” 

Dean hushed him with a finger pressed to his mouth. He was dancing on the edge of treason, interrupting nobility that way when he was brought up from rags. “If I’m going to do this,” Dean began, backing away from Castiel but looking supremely reluctant. “Then I intend to sell it. Just hang me _after_ my sentence is through.”

He hauled his door shut, leaving Castiel stunned and silent on the other side.

\\\\\

“My Prince, you look _awful_ ,” Balthazar said with disappointment, clearly resisting the urge to straighten Castiel’s clothing. He’d gotten a poor night’s sleep, tossing and turning as he recounted his interaction with Dean. He thought of all sorts of impressive things he could have said or done, instead of standing like a statue. 

He could have scolded the young man for mistreating his host - there was no clause in their agreement that allowed physical touch, let alone to cause gossip and rumors among the staff. Castiel didn’t want to scold him, though, of course. He wanted to feel Dean’s mouth on his again, show or not. 

But what Dean had said was irritating him. His ‘sentence,’ he had called it. As if their agreement was a punishment for some unseen crime. Castiel didn’t want Dean to view their time together as punishment; at worst he had hoped Dean would understand how it was mutually beneficial.

At best, perhaps, he’d expected they could befriend one another.

“Thank you,” he said idly to Balthazar, too weary to think up a clever response. His chamberlain was less than impressed, he was sure, but Castiel just yawned in response. He sat in his arched throne, elbow on the armrest with his palm pressed against his cheek. “What are the day’s duties?”

Balthazar began rattling off his itinerary, but Castiel was unable to pay attention. He drifted off about halfway through, but he snapped back to attention at Balthazar’s annoyed sigh. “Your Grace,” he began, “perhaps your duties should wait until this afternoon. You appear in need of some recreation.”

Castiel shuffled guiltily. “I apologize, Balthazar,” he sighed. “I suppose I didn’t sleep well last night.”

“I’m sure,” Balthazar said flippantly, then shut his mouth quickly at Castiel’s sharp gaze. “The ushers talk, Your Majesty,” he explained with a cringe.

“I slept in my quarters and Duke Winchester slept in his own,” Castiel muttered, perhaps a bit coldly. “Whatever you have heard is idle gossip and I would appreciate it if you would treat it as such.”

“Of course, Your Grace,” Balthazar stuttered, likely taken aback at being spoken to with the same tone Castiel usually reserved for Michael. “I didn’t mean to imply anything untoward.”

A disbelieving noise escaped Castiel’s lips, but he did realize he was being petulant. He softened his expression and nodded, accepting his chamberlain’s apology. “I think I will take some recreation,” he said amiably. “I’ll go to the stables and visit the horses. Have the Lord and Duke risen?”

“They are eating breakfast in the Lord’s chamber, Your Grace,” Balthazar said, eyes drifting to the side. “The young Lord had a difficult time waking this morning.”

Castiel laughed and recalled Sam’s drunken giggle as he and Dean had put him to bed. “I can imagine. Please have them alerted of my whereabouts.” 

The stables were a short walk from the castle courtyard. The day was as sunny as the last, the heat welcome on Castiel’s skin as he was escorted down the cobblestone pathway. Tall, wispy flowers that Castiel could not name loomed around them, colorful and bright, swaying in the gentle breeze. 

He knew it would be an unpopular opinion, but Castiel enjoyed the smell of the stables. It was like warm soap, saddle oil, and leather. Even the horse feed had an earthy, pleasant scent, and his stable hands were very good at clearing the area of dung. He suspected they had news of his guest and had cleaned accordingly.

The Quartermaster came out to greet Castiel with a bow. He was an older man with a trimmed, brown beard speckled with gray. He’d shown up at the castle claiming the best trained steeds in the kingdom, and essentially calling the king an idiot for not utilizing his fleet. “Morning, Your Grace,” he greeted in his rough growl of a voice. ”Saddle a mount for you?”

“Not at present, Singer, thank you,” Castiel replied amiably. “I am only here to visit. Although a ride might be in order for this afternoon.” He hadn’t an inkling if Dean and Sam had ever ridden a horse, and wondered if he should take them out for some training in case a hunt arose. 

Castiel walked down the line of horses in the stables, rubbing their velvety noses as they pressed forward on a search for treats. It was calming in here, the gentle snuffling and whinnying of the animals providing a natural symphony that Castiel was always partial to. He snuck some treats for his own steed, Clarence, stroking his braided mane. 

Clarence nickered quietly as he leaned into Castiel’s touch. His baleful eyes blinked slowly while Castiel pet him as he begged for another treat. “Shh, that’s enough,” Castiel chided. “Singer will notice if I get you fat.”

“Wouldn’t recommend it,” Singer said from behind him, startling Castiel a bit. “Won’t be worth nothin’ to you if he had more pounds on him.” He slipped another treat into Castiel’s hand. “Just don’t say it’s from me.”

The horse inhaled the second treat as quickly as the first, but Castiel was given little time to enjoy it as the familiar sounds of clinking armor filled the air. He turned to see Gadreel escorting Sam up the hill, and Castiel’s heart leapt to his throat. But Dean was not with them.

“Your Grace!” Sam exploded upon seeing Castiel, smiling bright and beaming. The horses spooked a bit at his exuberance. It was safe to say Sam didn’t spend a lot of time around horses. “Sir Gadreel brought me to see the horses. They told me you’d be here, I thought maybe you’d like the company.”

“I would,” Castiel said, leading Sam into the stable. He couldn’t help but look back down the hill, but Gadreel caught his eye and shook his head slightly. Dean would not be joining them.

With a resolute smile, Castiel introduced Sam to each of the horses and taught him to feed them carrots. “Be sure to lay your hand flat so the teeth don’t catch your fingers,” he explained. Singer gave them an odd look, like Sam was a little too old to be getting such lessons, but Castiel ignored him. 

“Did you have a good evening?” Castiel asked as Sam dug through the carrots for a sizable treat. Sam snorted, then cleared his throat, looking regretful.

“Uh, excuse me,” he said, rubbing the back of his head. “All I meant was, the wine had a profound effect on me.” His smile was crooked and Castiel nodded in agreement.

“Perhaps we stop at three goblets, next time,” he suggested. “Your brother seemed content to let you continue.”

“He usually doesn’t let me have wine,” Sam sighed, but brightened. “Last night was a special occasion. And I did have fun, Prince Castiel.” 

“I know.” The unspoken question hung between them, but Sam seemed content to ignore it, much more interested in the chestnut coat of the steed he had deemed his favorite. She was a soft and sturdy girl, reliable on hunts. Sam had good taste. “Do you think your brother had fun as well?”

Absently reaching for one of the grooming brushes, Sam nodded. “I know he did. He was relaxed. I haven’t seen him like that in a long time.” He started massaging circles into the horse’s flank with the brush. Her eyes fluttered with contentment.

Castiel was probably doing much the same, as lightheaded as he felt. Sam had sounded so sincere, and he was not as good of a liar as Dean was. “Where is he now? The Duke?”

It looked like it took a moment for Sam to register what Castiel was talking about. “Oh!” He looked at the brush in his hand and guilt gripped his features, like maybe he got caught out doing something inappropriate. “He’s in the library, Your Grace,” Sam mumbled. 

“Shall we join him?”

“Why don’t you go?” Singer’s voice rang out from the other end of the barn. “I think the young Lord here has a penchant for the horses. Want to learn a few things, My Lord?”

Sam’s eyes widened with excitement. “Oh, yes!” He looked back to Castiel nervously. It made the prince feel a little uncomfortable; Sam was clearly still very nervous about stepping on his toes. “I mean, if that’s all right, Your Majesty.”

Castiel bowed slightly to convey his acceptance. “As you wish. Enjoy your time - and don’t let Singer harass you too much.” 

Gadreel offered to stay with Sam but was brushed off by Singer, who was adamant that he could take care of one teenage noble. The knight may have grumbled a little, but was content to be Castiel’s guard back to the castle.

“The boy is smart,” he said thoughtfully, “curious and polite. He fits in well.”

The surprise was likely evident on Castiel’s face, judging by Gadreel’s sudden scowl. “You like him,” Castiel accused lightly, and Gadreel sighed.

“I do,” he conceded without a fight. “It’s his brother I take issue with.” 

Castiel hummed low. “I wish you would offer him a little more trust, Gadreel. He’s been perfect since his arrival.”

It was clear that Gadreel was displeased with that truth. Dean had taken to the lie without flaw and had been playing it spectacularly toward the castle staff. It would be more difficult to convince the other nobles, and undoubtedly Castiel’s father, but at the rate he was learning Castiel was confident they might have a chance at success.

“I will try to be more accommodating, Your Majesty,” the knight said tightly. Castiel tutted at him.

“If you grind your teeth any harder they’ll turn to dust,” he said sagely. 

Dean was indeed in the library, a thick tome splayed out in front of him on the oak table. He was pouring over it, brows knit with deep concentration as a finger trailed the words he was reading. Castiel wondered briefly if Dean had taught Sam to read, and who had taught Dean? He bade Gadreel farewell and sat gingerly across from Dean, not wanting to disturb him yet.

Dean did notice him, Castiel was sure, but the man did not look up right away. It was difficult not to stare, Castiel mused, the shadows from the candles dancing across Dean’s cheeks like the firelight had done the evening before. Right before they had kissed. His bottom lip looked like Dean had been chewing on it, perhaps another habit of his studying. Castiel felt the urge to touch it, but kept his hands politely in his lap as Dean continued reading.

He reached the end of a page and did look up, then, offering Castiel a dazzling smile. “Hello, Your Majesty,” he said with a low and respectful. “I was reading on your genealogy. Fascinating.”

Dean was studying for future conversation, Castiel was sure. The pure dedication to the farce they’d created was extremely impressive to the prince. He was sure it was written all over his face, because Dean’s expression melted into something much more smug. 

“I’m glad you enjoyed it,” Castiel offered amiably, but there was no substance behind it. He actually felt a little pathetic next to Dean, all charm and smiles where Castiel was nods and bows. His wit was unmatched. “Sam is at the stables with my quartermaster. He’s learning about the horses.”

A genuine smile lit up Dean’s handsome features. “That’s great. He’s always liked horses. He used to-.” Dean stopped himself and cleared his throat suddenly, his eyes sliding to the other populating the room. “He’s always begged to work with our horsemaster,” he lied, and Castiel noticed his tone fall in that flat, rehearsed way.

“Well, I hope he takes advantage of the opportunity, then.”

There was a brief moment of silence that passed, their eyes caught up in each other’s, that Dean decided to break by sliding his hand across the table to gather up Castiel’s. He twined their fingers together, thumb passing over Castiel’s knuckles gently. The prince could not resist a smile.

“Thank you for finding me,” Dean said, and Castiel wasn’t sure if he was referring to finding him in the library or in the alleyway. He has a sneaking suspicion that Dean intended it that way. 

His gratitude was so apparent, written on his sleeve in sprawling script for everyone to see. Dean was not one to hold back, Castiel had learned, and certainly not one to abide by the whim of others. He lived so openly and was willing to close off certain parts of himself to protect their lie.

Castiel’s stomach clenched up with something tight, knowing his face fell into a particularly nasty frown. Dean drew his hand back slowly, regret shining in his wide eyes. “Uh, I apologize, Your Majesty,” he muttered. “I didn’t mean to overstep my boundaries.”

Castiel stared at Dean’s hand and wanted nothing more than to be able to take it in his own once again. Each time he was reminded of Dean’s debt to him, he wanted nothing more than to break the deal and set them free. But selfishly, he wasn’t sure he could bear to see them go. 

He tried to pinpoint exactly when the village thief had taken hold of Castiel so strongly. They’d known each other for such a brief time, that the intensity with which the prince regarded him was reeling. He’d felt this way before; he recognized want, however it was usually something he was able to convince himself out of.

With Dean, he did not feel the urge to do so.

“Take my hand again,” was all he said, and Dean did so with a very heavy air of reluctance. Castiel regretted it but chose not to fret. Dean’s hand was warm and dry, large over Castiel’s own. Some of the tension seemed to edge out between them.

“Will you show me around the grounds?” Dean asked. “I want to see your castle from the outside.”

Castiel beamed. “Of course, Dean," he said amiably. “It is a spectacular day and you would be remiss to spend it indoors.”

They took to the courtyard, sun peeking through the thick branches of the well-groomed shrubbery. There was cobblestone under their feet, littered with glittering stones that sparkled brightly in the summertime. Dean and Castiel chatted as they walked. They spoke of the kingdom, mutual appreciation for apples, and surprisingly, philosophy.

Castiel was pleased to learn that Dean’s intelligence ran much deeper than hosting scams on the fish merchants and his castle staff. He had read, or at least had thought deeply about, many things in the world mostly reserved for royal court. He had ideas on land expansion, maintaining peace, maximizing resources.

Dean would have actually made an excellent Duke, all things considered. 

Somewhere along the walk, Dean’s hand had fallen to cover Castiel’s. It had felt natural and inviting, so Castiel had dared to thread their fingers together and keep him close. They passed the gardeners, who bowed, eyes lingering on their clasped hands. Castiel was not known for promoting his favor, but with Dean he could hardly resist.

Gadreel had provided him with fine clothes, purchased with coin slipped to him by Castiel. They were dyed shades of brown and mossy green, accentuating Dean’s tan skin and green eyes. He was easily a sight to behold in the garden, with the sun bright on their faces, and Castiel was loathe to tear his eyes away.

But Dean dropped his hand, a grin on his face as he turned to block Castiel’s path. He crowded up into the prince’s space, drawing a startled expression out of him. “The gardeners are watching us,” he murmured secretly, then leaned in and closed the distance between their mouths.

Castiel’s eyes slipped shut as he allowed his arms to wind around Dean, tugging the young man closer to him. It was a little more charged than the night before as Dean didn’t bother to hold his breath, allowing it to fan hot over Castiel’s cheek as they kissed. His hand rested gently at the base of the prince’s spine, thumb rubbing into the small of his back. Castiel couldn’t help but allow a hitched noise to escape his lips.

Dean pulled back, then, cheeks and eyes bright with mischief. He disentangled himself from the prince and continued walking, the stables just peeking into sight. Castiel stood paralyzed for a moment, but chanced a glance over his shoulder to see the gardners’ reactions.

There was no one there.

\\\\\

They met with Sam at the stables. Castiel was pleased to see his bright grin, intent, perked ears as the boy listened to Singer explain how to clean the horses' hooves. Sam was smudged with dirt, looking more like he had when Castiel had found him and his brother in the abandoned building. 

"Sam," Dean laughed, shocked and amused, "you look like a disaster." 

Sam's smile fell into a petulant pout. "It's hard work, Dean, it's not easy to stay clean," he grumbled as he ran a hand through his hair, effectively dirtying it further.

"You will have to bathe before lunch," Castiel said kindly. "We will have others in the castle dining with us today and your presentability will be important."

"That's okay," Sam nodded in agreement. Gadreel was standing rigidly at the front of the barn, hands clasped over the hilt of his sword. It looked as if he was watching the whole ordeal out of the corner of his eye but steadfastly ignoring them, attempting to not be noticed. With absolutely zero intent to respect this, Castiel called him over.

"Gadreel," he said, "will you bring Sam to his chambers? And tell Samandriel to heat a bath for him."

"Of course, Your Majesty," Gadreel muttered, eyes slitted in something like annoyance. The smile on Castiel's face assuredly was not helping. The knight took the teenager by the small of his back and began to guide him away.

"Thank you, Singer!" Sam called amiably over his shoulder. He stumbled a little as Gadreel urged him forward.

Dean watched them with a deeply thoughtful expression on his face. It was not exactly a happy one. "Your guard captain...," he began slowly, but Castiel cut him off.

"He's a good man," Castiel assured him as Singer pretended to busy himself without listening in. "Loyal to a fault, most likely. He does have a heart hidden somewhere underneath that armor."

With a small sigh and slacked posture, Dean appeared to have relaxed just a bit. Castiel smiled, enjoying how Dean appeared to feel more comfortable by the moment during his stay at the castle. The young man stretched his arms above his head and even allowed himself a small smile as he looked over to Castiel. "Well, I suppose we'd better get ready for lunch as well. Don't you have any..." he slid his eyes over to Singer. "Duties, today?"

Castiel nodded. "I have a few things that will wait until after the meal," he said. "Not all will be pleasant. You are welcome to join me."

"Tempting," Dean laughed, and Castiel felt the heat on his cheeks. "Honestly, I would rather join you for the more pleasant things."

Singer coughed loudly. It was nearly enough to startle Castiel out of his shock but he still was unable to draw his eyes away from the quirk of Dean's lips. "I, ah," he stuttered, "well- I share the sentiment."

Dean's smile was all over his face, in his eyes and his dimples and cheeks. There was a brief moment where Castiel felt like running, like speeding down the grassy hill to dive into the moat and just drift beneath the surface for awhile. Instead, he swallowed his fear and dragged his fingertips from Dean's elbow to his wrist.

It should have been expected, particularly after a conversation that wrought with innuendo, but Dean took a step back. Castiel's hands fell limply to his side and he offered Dean a cordial smile, sweeping his arm out in front of himself. "After you, Duke Winchester," he said politely. Dean's smile did falter, but it was all Castiel had in him to not reach out and make amends.

"Thank you," Dean said, but his voice sounded so hollow. Castiel felt foolish, face hot with shame as he followed Dean down the hill back toward the courtyard. He hadn't meant to overstep his boundaries, but he supposed it was likely his fault for not setting firm rules to begin with.

"We'll need to have a conversation," Castiel said once they were isolated on the hill. "I need to know what makes you uncomfortable so I don't cross a line with you."

Dean just nodded and didn't offer anything else, which left Castiel with a cold feeling in the pit of his stomach. "We can do that," he muttered eventually, smile so forced that Castiel couldn’t muster one up himself. 

Lunch was unpleasant for the prince. Dean continued to watch him, fixing him with that strained affection. The others in the dining hall appeared to be satisfied, sharing small smiles amongst themselves whenever Dean complimented Castiel. But to Castiel, it was the least genuine expression he’d gotten from Dean so far.

Sam, freshly washed, chatted excitedly about the horses. Michael was watching him warily, eyes narrowed and suspicious. He would be the most difficult to convince, Castiel presumed, though he would have little say in the matter regardless. 

Balthazar interrupted Castiel’s dour inner monologue with a rundown of his afternoon duties. For the first time since he’d set eyes on Dean, he was hoping that the young man wouldn’t join him. Doubts were beginning to blossom in his chest and he had no interest in exploring them.

“To work, then,” Castiel said as he stood from the table. Dean’s eyebrows were knitted together with concern, but Castiel just flashed him a quick smile. “Dean, don’t allow me to take you away. Please finish your meal.”

“No.” Castiel blinked slowly as Dean stood up as well. “I’d like to join you, if I may.”

There was a quiet at the table, eyes on the pair. A flare of annoyance flashed behind Castiel’s eyes, and he couldn’t help but wonder if the tension he felt was as clear to everyone else. He jumped a bit when Balthazar cleared his throat. “We’re to go to the war room, Your Majesty,” he said. “There is an important matter that requires your immediate attention.”

Castiel nodded curtly and turned to leave, irritation still tickling up his spine. He heard Dean mumble a farewell to Sam, promising to meet up with him later in the day. He was confused; he could not understand why Dean so adamantly wanted to spend his time with Castiel when they were so clearly at odds.

He could have asked Dean to speak privately with him, but his actions were being directed by his irritability was directing his actions. He settled on ignoring him until they reached the war room.

A map of the kingdom and surrounding regions was spread out on the large wooden table. It was dotted with totems denoting the lands they owned and where their forces were stationed across the land. They had to maintain a presence among the people to promote safety.

The candles were lit but burned down, dripping wax onto the table. Castiel frowned. That meant that Balthazar and Michael had spent a great deal of time in that room earlier in the day. He turned to them, concerned.

“Is there a problem, Balthazar?” He asked slowly. His chamberlain hesitated, eyes slipping toward the door. 

“We should wait for Constable Henricksen,” he suggested. 

Dean’s arms were crossed tightly over his chest. He looked uncomfortable, almost angry, and Castiel thought it might even be on his behalf. 

“You will tell me now,” Castiel commanded sharply. Michael took a small step forward.

“We’ve had some casualties,” he began. “Our forces in the south are under attack. We believe the assailants are under the command of King Crowley.”

Castiel stared at his chancellor. “We’ve been at peace with his kingdom for a century,” he said with complete disbelief. “What would compel him to break our treaty?”

“King Crowley knows exactly what he’s doing, Your Majesty,” Dean says angrily, eyes lit with fury. “This is an act of war.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which I earn the rating.

  
War. The word made Castiel’s blood run cold, his hands clenched into tight fists at his sides. “Please continue,” he directed toward Michael tersely.

“We’ll have to move the ball up,” he said hurriedly. “Extend an invite to King Crowley and discuss the terms of the treaty.”

The idea seemed absurd. How the ball could have a profound effect on the nature of politics was a concept beyond Castiel’s scope. That was why he had advisors, he supposed.

Balthazar scoffed. “We can’t move the ball up, Michael, the Seneschal will have our heads. We should wait for the Constable.”

Castiel could hardly hear them bicker. His gaze was locked on the ground, pulse pounding in his ears. He was ill-equipped to make such decisions, but while his father was away the responsibility did fall to his shoulders. The kingdom had been in peace for so long that he had next to no experience.

A small pressure appeared at his elbow and startled him out of his reverie. Dean was grasping his arm, offering a small smile for comfort. Balthazar and Michael continued to fight but his focus was entirely on Dean in that moment. Affection bloomed so suddenly and fiercely in his chest that he was concerned he would lose his composure.

Instead, he just nodded toward Dean in thanks. The man’s hand dropped and Castiel cleared his throat, gazing at the war table. “Enough,” he said sharply, and both his advisors fell silent. “We invite King Crowley to the ball. Send a crow immediately.”

“At once,” Michael said, bowing, and moved toward the corridor.

Dean’s eyebrows were knit tightly, his jaw working. “Are you sure-”

“Quiet,” Castiel snapped. Dean’s eyes lit with offense and he took a step back, crossing his arms tightly over his chest as he stared at the ground. Castiel felt a pang of guilt seize his chest, but he ignored it as he turned toward Balthazar.

Whatever he was going to say was interrupted by the clanging of armor, steel boots hammering against the floor in rapid approach. Constable Henricksen paused at the door, helmet under his arm. “Prince Castiel,” he said in greeting, and Castiel ushered him in.

“Report,” he said shortly.

Henricksen glanced warily toward Dean, but continued after Castiel’s glare intensified. “We’ve lost troops to men wearing Crowley’s sigil in the South,” he said shortly. “Night ambush.”

“Casualties?”

“Twelve,” Henricksen said reluctantly. “Two stationed groups on the South road. Both were assigned to disrupt bandit activity near the southern villages.”

Castiel recalled issuing those orders. He’d gotten pleas from southern villagers whose merchant routes had been interrupted by throngs of bandits. Usually an easy task; soldiers were consistently more well-armed than road thieves. He swore under his breath, fist clenching at his side.

“Has there been no show of intention?” he asked angrily. “No explanation?”

“Not yet, Your Majesty,” Henricksen admitted regretfully. “But we fully intend to fight back on your order.”

Castiel shook his head. “I’ve sent word to Crowley’s council inviting him to our summer ball,” he said, and Henricksen balked obviously and loudly.

“Your Majesty, he _murdered_ -.”

“We don’t know his intention,” Castiel hissed. “It could have been deserters. Rogues intending to cause disruption. I will speak with Crowley myself and determine his actions _before_ we declare war.”

Henricksen shifted uncomfortably. “I cannot advise this. It is incredibly dangerous.”

“I agree,” Dean said hastily, but Castiel held up a hand to silence them both.

“Your suggestions have been heard,” he said coldly, “and will be considered. For now, I suggest you listen to the command of your Prince and we will not overreact.”

There was a silence in the room, broken only by the crackling of the fire in the hearth. Castiel could feel the heat of the flames on his skin, itching under his clothes. For the first time in many months, he only wished for his father be there to advise.

He turned to Balthazar, who looked a frightening mix of concerned and disbelieving. “Balthazar,” he said quietly, “please, send a crow to my father. Alert him of the situation and emphasize that his presence is not necessary.”

“My Prince-.”

“At once,” Castiel growled. Bathazar blinked at him and bowed, taking his leave with an air of dissonance. He looked toward the Constable. “Henricksen, gather the on-site recruits. Implement training exercises and recruitment activities. I’m not completely useless, despite what my council believes.”

“Yes, your Majesty,” he said, inclining his head. “Your wish.”

Once he had left the room, Castiel and Dean were alone with the dying fire. Castiel was staring down at the war table, the red flags denoting casualties standing out harshly against the tan parchment. He grit his teeth.

Dean let out a long sigh behind him. “I don’t think you’re thinking this through.”

Castiel whirled on him. “And what would you do, Dean?” He said, advancing on the man until Dean’s back slammed against the wall. “Sneak into their marketplaces? Thieve their goods?”

Dean’s eyes were narrowed, anger radiating off of him in a way Castiel didn’t want to worry about. “I’m just concerned-.”

“No one asked you to be concerned,” Castiel growled. His hand was flat on the wall next to Dean’s head, leaning in close. “You are here as a courtesy, Dean, and this game we’re playing is a means to an end.”

The way Dean licked his lips at Castiel’s words was probably meant to be a challenge. If the prince’s eyes flicked downward, it was of their own accord. “What end is that again?” Dean muttered. “So papa won’t implement a Justicar and strip you of any legitimacy you think you have?”

“How dare you,” Castiel growled, shouldering past Dean to heave the enormous wooden door shut. It echoed in the small room, ringing in Castiel’s ears and he turned on Dean and advanced, eyes narrowed sharp.

To his credit, Dean did not back down. If anything, he straightened his back, tightened his jaw. “What are you going to do? You’re not going to send us to the gallows.”

Castiel flinched. He didn’t know where Dean had gotten the idea that Castiel wanted to cast him out, even despite his disrespectful words. He felt shame roil in his gut as he quietly admitted, “No. I wouldn’t. But Gadreel-.”

Dean shook his head rapidly, still angry even as Castiel was losing steam. “You think Gadreel would turn us in at this point, Castiel? With how he is with Sam, do you think he’d send us to our death?”

The silence in the room was heavy, pulling Castiel’s shoulders down as he stared at the ground. “Then why do you remain at the castle?” he asked, finally dragging his eyes up to meet Dean’s. He was not happy to find trepidation there, and he found himself suddenly afraid to hear the answer.

But Dean didn’t answer immediately. The fire crackled behind him, casting shadows across his stubbled cheeks, making him all angles and rage.

“Why are you here?” Castiel asked again, voice raising. “If you are so confident, and you care so little about this, then go.”

“We’re here because we wanted to help you,” Dean snapped, eyes everywhere but the prince. “You were _so_ kind to Sam, it was as if…” He shook his head again. “You gave him something he thought he’d never have.”

Castiel could barely hear what Dean said after his first few words. They, the brothers, wanted to help him. He had scarcely felt so pathetic, an emotion he usually reserved for when his father was in the castle. When Dean rolled his eyes, staring with exasperation up at the heavens, Castiel wondered if he could feel any worse.

“You feel so much shame,” Dean seethed. “Even after it all, you still see me as a peasant. A thief. Too _common_.”

Castiel blanched. “Too common for what?”

Dean’s hand was around the back of his head in an instant, dragging him forward to press their lips together fiercely. A slight noise of surprise escaped him, but soon Castiel’s world tunneled to encompass only Dean, his wet mouth warm and hurried.

His hands were fisted in Dean’s tunic, gripping with all the realization of how alone they were, how this was only for them. Castiel kissed back with fervor, unable to restrain his need for Dean’s body against his.

Dean pulled back, perhaps to say something, but Castiel wantonly chased his mouth and refused to let him speak. He felt the smile against his lips and wanted to drown in it, delighting in Dean’s warm hands spanning his back. He gripped Dean’s hips, tugged at his tunic to ruck it up, slid his hands up and underneath to touch his skin.

“You are anything but common,” Castiel said shortly, and Dean surged forward, buzzing with the tension between them as he dove his mouth against Castiel’s throat.

“This is indecent,” Dean murmured into his neck. Castiel was shuddering, his muscles weak under Dean’s ministrations. “What if Michael were to see you like this?”

“What if he knew who I really was?”

Castiel probably stiffened, stumbled, and Dean fell out of his arms. Castiel watched him mournfully and wanted to chase him, wanted to wrap him up again. “Dean,” he pleaded, “you don’t understand.”

Dean’s smile was anything but happy. It was tight with a sadness Castiel longed to erase, so he reached out to take his hand. Though Dean didn’t yank away, he also didn’t return the squeeze. “I do,” he said with a humorless chuckle. “I do understand, Cas. And I wish I could stay mad at you.”

Castiel had never been addressed with a pet name, not even by his parents. It sent a pleasant shiver down his spine though he knew it would have to remain between them, like so much else. “If I were a better ruler, I would marry who my father wanted and take you as my paramour.” His tone was bitter enough to make Dean laugh, which gave him a sliver of hope.

“You see me your mistress, Your Majesty?” he said playfully, but Castiel couldn’t bear to continue the joke.

“This arrangement we have is hurting you,” Castiel observed, and Dean’s smile fell as if its strings were severed. “If you would prefer to leave, I would despise it, but I wouldn’t stop you.”

Dean bit his lip and Castiel was overwhelmed with wishing it was between his own teeth instead. “Sam would never forgive me,” he admitted, looking defeated, pain etched into his features. “I don’t think I would forgive myself.”

Castiel pulled him forward again, kissed him more gently, and Dean melted against him like candle wax. He didn’t allow it to progress much further, but slid his hands up Dean’s arms to rest on his shoulders. “You are not to speak to me like that again,” Castiel said, sharp but teasing, and Dean’s eyes flashed.

“Yes, your Majesty,” he said, dull and monotone, only the barest hint of a smirk on his lips.

“You are to treat me with the respect I deserve as your royal prince,” Castiel went on, feathering a kiss against Dean’s cheek.

“Yes, your Majesty,” Dean repeated flatly, thumbs rubbing circles at Castiel’s hips. The prince kissed Dean at the softest skin just below his earlobe, moving up to breathe against his ear.

“And you are to meet me in my bedchamber tonight.”

Dean visibly swallowed, hands tightening briefly against Castiel’s waist. “Yes, your Majesty.”

///

Castiel’s advisors continued to drown him in advice the rest of the day. Castiel had little interest in indulging them, focused more on exacting his plan and attempting to not stare Dean down whenever they were in the same room.

He thankfully was granted a reprieve when Dean took to find his brother. He’d sworn Dean to secrecy considering the potential war effort, but Castiel had a sneaking suspicion that Sam would be let in the know. Castiel wondered if Gadreel would be privy to the information before Castiel had a moment to tell him.

The Seneschal was expectedly annoyed, her coiffed fiery red hair loosening with her stress. She laid her hands delicately over the front of her corset, the picture of patience aside from her sharp, narrowed eyes. “I’ll need to reissue the invitations,” she said shortly, “and there will be talk as to why.”

Castiel simply smiled. “Entice them with a mysterious engagement announcement,” he said, and watched her eyes twinkle with delight.

“That will certainly distract them,” she said, an eyebrow quirked with interest. “Scandal generally outweighs impoliteness.”

Castiel scoffed. “It’s hardly a scandal, is it?” He couldn’t imagine anyone besides his father truly caring who he took at his side. But Anna’s answering laugh, tinkling and just this side of condescending, proved him incorrect.

“The handsome, ever-solitary future king taking to matrimony?”  She smirked. “Yes, I believe there will be talk.”

“Well, good,” Castiel said, mildly distracted at the thought of the announcement, Dean on his arm as they entered the great hall, the eyes of the nobles flashing with envy. He tried not to indulge the thought too much, but it did make something warm pool in his stomach.

He ran into Gadreel, nearly head-on, on his way to his quarters to change for supper. His knight grasped his shoulders, fire in his eyes. “Your Majesty,” he said, low voice wrought with so much pain that Castiel could only return an exasperated look as he shook him off.

“Calm down,” he admonished, brushing himself off from where Gadreel had held him. Gadreel was red-in-the-face with restraint as he carefully chose his next words.

“Inviting King Crowley here is a death sentence,” he said slowly and deliberately. “He will bring assassins - spies!”

“Or,” Castiel suggested, “he will explain to us why he has breached our contract and be open to future negotiations.”

Gadreel shifted, eyes boring into Castiel’s. “I beg you to not be naive, Your Majesty-.”

“I will not accept any more insinuations that I am ill-educated or rash,” Castiel snapped. Guilt immediately crept into his gut at the sight of Gadreel’s face, fallen and betrayed, and he quickly opened his mouth to amend himself. Gadreel held up a hand.

“Understood,” Gadreel said, straightening to a more professional position. Castiel’s chest felt tight. “I will ensure your safety at all times, Your Majesty.”

“Thank you,” Castiel said quietly. “Will you please escort me to my quarters?”

With a short nod, Gadreel took his place at his prince’s side and led him to his quarters. The walk was tense and silent, much like Castiel did not prefer, and when they reached his doors he ordered Gadreel inside. The knight grunted but followed the order, frown lines still wrinkling his features.

“I did not mean to admonish you,” he said as soon as the doors swung shut. “You are a loyal and talented knight. I relish your advice and your friendship. Am I clear?”

Gadreel seemed to relax, his expression melting into something much less painful to look at. “My only concern is for your safety,” he said stiffly. Castiel returned that with a smile, gently touching Gadreel’s arm.

“Now,” Castiel said as he crossed his arms tightly over his chest. “How was your day with the younger Winchester?”

If Gadreel’s eyes could get any rounder, Castiel would be surprised. The look surprised such a laugh out of Castiel that it even surprised himself; it was the first time he’d laughed in days, he felt. He kept his eyebrows raised expectantly, though Gadreel refused to indulge him.

“He is much more charming than his brother,” was all the knight had to offer, gruffly.

“Dean is charming,” Castiel argued gently. “How do you think Sam learned it?”

“You do bring up an interesting point,” Gadreel said, suddenly more serious. “They have a strange knowledge of royal custom. No matter their intelligence, that sort of comfort is something that comes only with experience.”

Castiel paused as he turned these words over in his mind. “I hadn’t thought about it.”

Gadreel nodded shortly. “I would recommend thinking about it,” he said. “We know nothing about these men. And if King Crowley is breaching contract, we must consider each option.”

A ringing sounded between Castiel’s ears. “Dean is not a spy,” he said softly. He didn’t sound convincing, even to himself, and Gadreel’s answering sour expression said everything he needed to. “I understand, Gadreel. I will practice caution.”

“That’s all I ask.”

Castiel excused his knight, who left with a bow, and then dressed for supper. The conversation circled in his head so vehemently that he began to feel nauseous. He refused to believe Gadreel’s implication, but he would be lying to himself if he attempted to say it was absurd to consider.

He straightened his powder blue tunic, adjusting his belt, tinkering with his outfit to avoid stepping foot back into the corridors. The real world won out eventually, however, and Castiel was forced to face what he didn’t care to.

With a sigh, he pulled the doors open and stumbled as he found Dean on the other side. The man was dressed in buttery yellow finery, gold buttons lining his lapels. The seamstresses must have had a wonderful time dressing him, matching him to Castiel’s own finery. They looked a pair, the two of them, and Castiel felt his cheeks hint a bit of warmth.

“I was wondering when you’d come out,” Dean said, a smirk evident on his lips. “I was beginning to feel foolish waiting around.”

“Perfection takes time,” Castiel said sagely, delighting in Dean’s returned grin. All previous inhibitions dissolved in the way Dean was looking at him. Suddenly, a hand was wrapped around his waist and Dean was leaning in for a kiss, something that turned deep and breathy before Castiel even noticed. He had to wrench himself away eventually, feeling taut and happy, Dean’s lips pursed in a pout.

“We have dinner,” Castiel reminded him, and Dean rolled his eyes.

“If we must, Your Majesty,” he said drolly. His eyes flickered back to Castiel’s door but the prince refused him.

“We must.” He leaned in, brushing his mouth against Dean’s ear. “And then, we can retire.”

Dean shivered against him in a way that almost had him doubting his choice.

The prince entered the dining hall with Dean on his arm. He surveyed the hesitant and apprehensive looks that greeted them and frowned; that really would not do. Dean hardly seemed to notice, though, zeroing in on where Sam was as giving him a small wave. Sam’s smile was tight and mildly uncomfortable, giving Castiel a sinking feeling.

“Did you speak with Sam?” Castiel asked, and Dean really didn’t need to answer. It was written all over his face. Castiel attempted to not be distressed, instead shrugging it off, and smiling softly. “I suppose I should have expected it.”

“I’m sorry,” Dean murmured. “I can’t keep things from him.”

“If you trust him, then I stand with you,” Castiel replied. Dean’s arm briefly tightened against him.   

Dinner passed with the type of tension Castiel despised - his counselors were silent and frustrated which bled onto the table and soaked into Castiel’s skin. By the end of it, he was strung up with so much irritation that he could hardly focus on which goblet of wine he was on.

Dean was generous with his own wine as well, his lips stained purple and his smile loose and happy, free hand light on the top of Castiel’s thigh. The prince was moments away from capturing Dean’s lips in front of his advisors and perhaps that was more obvious than he’d intended, because Dean was standing abruptly.

“Your Majesty, perhaps it is time you were escorted to your quarters.”

Gadreel began to stand, but Castiel held up a hand. “No need,” Castiel commanded to his knight. Gadreel looked absolutely furious, jaw clenched tight. “Perhaps you can tend to Sam.”

Sam made a noise suspiciously like a squawk, eyes round and embarrassed, widening only when Dean laughed. “Come, Your Majesty,” he said as he hooked Castiel’s arm, turning toward the door.

Castiel was happy to leave the judgemental looks behind, was desperate to never spend another moment out of Dean’s arms. They walked quickly along the corridors, sneaking kisses in alcoves, trading whose back fell against the cool stone. Dean took to being pressed against the walls, Castiel noted, with breathy acceptance and liquid bones.

Castiel’s bedchamber was warm, a fire roaring in his hearth, with sweet-smelling perfumes emanating off of the embers. The waitstaff was responsible, he was sure, but he couldn’t pay it much mind when he was pressing Dean into the feathery give of his bedclothes. Dean hitched his legs up and around Castiel’s waist, tongue deep in the prince’s mouth.

They kissed with a heat Castiel had never felt before. His skin felt lit with fire, Dean’s hands leaving molten trails in their wake over Castiel’s back. They stripped one another, finery falling crumpled to the floor in forgotten heaps.

Dean’s skin pulled over his muscles in shapes that Castiel traced with his fingers, tight and unfathomable. The vial of oil he’d kept under his pillow came in handy as he dripped it over their bodies, the slick substance smelling of hyacinth and and cinnamon. Dean’s mouth tasted like wine and tenacity, body moving with such determination against Castiel’s that they were both left breathless.

Naked and flush, Castiel hooked an arm underneath Dean’s leg and pushed it back, giving him a wider area to roll his hips against. A quiet noise of approval left Dean’s mouth, only to be swallowed by the prince.

Castiel found his mouth on Dean’s collarbone, sucking the salty skin into his mouth, rubbing their hard cocks together in swift and fluid motion. “Dean,” he breathed, all reverence and disbelief. Dean’s hands landed on his ass and pulled him forward.  

They were wet with sweat and oil, sliding and slipping along each other’s bodies, as hands explored untrodden territory. Dean’s hands fisted in the back of Castiel’s dark hair, holding him tight against his throat where Castiel was licking a bruise while they rocked together.

Castiel thumbed against Dean’s lips and was rewarded with Dean’s mouth closing around his finger. Dean’s tongue rubbed against the pad, sucking so softly that Castiel felt he was going cross-eyed. He unlatched from Dean’s throat and kissed him, wet thumb moving between their bodies to press against Dean’s ass.

A moan broke from Dean at that moment, his legs falling wide as he bit Castiel’s bottom lip. His give to Castiel’s whim was absolutely intoxicating, drugging Castiel into pushing further.

“You like that,” Castiel murmured as he pressed his thumb just behind Dean’s balls. All he needed as an answer was the way Dean bucked his hips. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

Dean’s chest was heaving with labored breaths, hands scrambling only to pull Castiel closer. His cock was hard and dripping, only from their rutting together, and if that were proof of anything Castiel would take it. He very slowly, gently, slid his thumb into Dean’s hole and attempted not to moan at the feeling.

No such gratitude was given by Dean, who gasped noisily into Castiel’s ear at the intrusion, hands all over the prince’s face and chest. That only encouraged Castiel to go further, mouthing along Dean’s jaw and kissing him filthily.

When they broke apart for air, Dean was staring up at Castiel with eyes that shone such authenticity that he could hardly bear to look at it for too long. Dean’s hands curled around his dick, stroking him fast as Castiel had ever felt.

He swore loudly as he thrust forward into Dean’s grip, fingering him as fast as he could manage, while he pushed his cock fiercely against any skin he could find.

“Touch me, Cas, please,” Dean was begging, Castiel realized belatedly, and he immediately took Dean’s dick into his free hand. It was hot and hard, so hard, and stroking it came naturally to him. He was overcome with the desire to dip his head down and lick the tip of Dean’s cock, so he did - he swirled his tongue along the top, unable to do much more at the angle at which he sat.

Dean groaned, hands tightening just so around Castiel’s dick that the prince found himself thrusting into it shamelessly. “Call me Cas again,” he demanded, breathless, watching Dean struggle between rubbing back against Castiel’s thumb or forward into his loose grip.

“Make me come, Cas,” Dean said. His cheeks were flushed, blotched red, freckles standing out against his skin. Castiel wanted to kiss each and everyone one. Instead, he twisted and curled his thumb instead of Dean’s body and reveled in the way he pushed up and off the mattress, coming hard between them.

Castiel continued to stroke Dean through his completion, removing his thumb from his body to grasp at his hip, to kiss him and aid him until the tremors stopped wracking his body. Dean collapsed bonelessly into the mattress and Castiel could do nothing but smile, could only kiss at his neck and cheek.

They lay there quietly for a moment before Dean surged forward, suddenly realizing that Castiel had not yet reached his orgasm. His hand immediately found Castiel’s cock and with the slick of his own come, with the oil and their sweat and how close Castiel was, it only took a few strokes before Castiel was releasing all over Dean’s stomach.

“That’s it, that’s right,” Dean cooed through it, making Castiel’s muscles seize and every bit of him twitch with his comedown.

They tipped their foreheads together, they kissed, jerking against one another until everything subsided and they were just resting quietly among Castiel’s soft silks. They were wrapped up one another, all limbs and heated skin, and Castiel just had to keep his mouth shut.

“Thank you,” he breathed instead, and Dean chuckled against him.

“If you say so,” he said, grinning into Castiel’s temple. The prince noticed the blooming bruise on Dean’s collarbone and smiled sleepily, pressing his fingers against it. Dean’s breath stuttered a bit and Castiel made note, putting a leg between Dean’s so they could sleep as entwined as he felt they were.

///

A week passed with Dean sleeping in Castiel’s bedchamber. It was expected so much that a second wardrobe was placed in his quarters, and in the morning they were always presented with fruit and mead enough for two. Though Gadreel looked disapprovingly upon what they had, Castiel ignored it with the evidence that Dean was his most genuine when he was with Castiel.

The prince saw a side of Dean he never showed outside of his chamber, except to Sam, perhaps. But never Gadreel or Balthazar, never to Michael or even Singer. Though Sam had cultivated quite the relationship with the stablehand, Dean was still apprehensive and put up walls.

The ball was fast approaching and their time was usually spent in the library, teaching Dean what he needed to know about the nobles who would be attending. The most important of which was King Crowley, to whom they would be giving much of their attention that evening, and Dean would have to be as convincing as possible. Crowley, from further south, would be more suspicious of the Winchester lands that they had fabricated.

Dean was, as usual, a fast learner. He could recall the lineages of nobles Castiel had never met, let alone studied, and he considered that an excellent sign of what was to come. Sam struggled a little bit more, but his smile and charm made up for what he couldn’t immediately recall.

The evening of the ball, their fineries were brought to Castiel’s chambers. Sam dressed with them as well, at Gadreel’s behest. The two had certainly grown close, though as far as Castiel knew there was nothing between them besides amiable and maybe slightly flirtatious walks through the castle gardens.

Dean’s dress clothes were of sage green silk, light and handsome on his frame. Castiel wore a blue like the midnight sky, near black but shimmering with color that shone off of Dean’s vest. Sam’s tunic was rust red and cream, silver buttons lining the middle.

The three of them looked handsome and royal, in place for what the evening had in store for them.

Dean and Sam looked nervous as they walked to the Great Hall. Castiel tried to calm Dean with smiles and light touches, but the tension was too thick. It was understandable, if Castiel were honest, how nervous Dean was. But as soon as they stepped into the Great Hall, hearing the cryer announce their names and titles, Castiel felt the tension melt from Dean’s frame.

“Lord Sam Winchester,” called Inias through the hall, “son of John Winchester, Duke of the Lower Region.”

The hall was stunning. Candelabras hung bright from the ceiling, stretched far along the steps and through the ballroom. Tapestries lined the walls, each depicting one war after another that Castiel’s father had fought. There was a throne at the head of the room, enormous and steel and fitted with the finest down linens to soften the chair.

Next to it was a smaller, but prominent throne, forged from metals as well, looking sharp and fine. Castiel’s heart beat hard at the sight, realizing it was there for Dean.

“Duke Dean Winchester, son of John Winchester, Lord of the Lower Region,” Inias called, “as accompanying His Majesty Prince Castiel, son of Charles, ruler of the Realm of Heaven.”

Castiel surveyed the crowd and was overjoyed to see it was exactly what he’d expected. Jealous eyes fell sharply on them as they descended the stairs, whispers among the nobles loud and prominent. Dean was as poised and gentle as they’d promised, all smiles and gentle nods as they made their way toward the head of the room near the thrones.

The whispers died down as they reached the head of the ballroom. Castiel scanned the crowd and found King Crowley next to his knight-commander, Alastair, clapping against his wine goblet with a calm smile on his face. Castiel found it unnerving.

“Welcome,” Castiel announced to the hall. The guests were buzzing with energy, probably just awaiting Castiel’s official engagement. “We are grateful for the presence of everyone who has joined us this evening. We hope to provide an evening of delight.” He grinned over at Dean, who was smiling hesitantly. The sight made Castiel’s stomach flip. “Please, enjoy the festivities. We will rejoin after the dances.”

Cheering and clapping erupted over the disappointed huffs of the crowd. Castiel leaned into Dean. “Are you all right?”

Dean said nothing, though, giving a hard stare out toward the quickly approaching King Crowley.

“King Crowley,” Castiel acknowledged, surprised for the early intervention in the evening. “I’m happy to see you decided to join us this evening.”

“What,” said Crowley, his drawl dripping over every word past his lips, “and miss this?”

Alastair smirked at his sight and Castiel struggled to keep the smile on his face. “I’m glad to hear you have high hopes for the evening.”

“Oh, it’s not that,” said Crowley, his black finery stark against the silver of Alastair’s armor.  He turned toward Dean, one eyebrow raised. “I’m just tickled to see the Prince of Heaven’s Realm taking on such a partner.”

Dean was bristled, tense, and Castiel looked between them with a feeling like stones dropping in his stomach. “Have you two met?” He asked Dean.

“No,” said King Crowley, “no, of course not. See you on the dance floor, Dean,” he said with a smirk and a nod, and disappeared into the crowd.


	4. Chapter 4

Dean was obviously on edge. His hands were clenched uncomfortably at his sides, eyes darting around the crowd of well-dressed guests as if taking inventory. His leg bounced nervously even as they stood, and Castiel rested a hand over Dean’s to calm him.

It had marginal success, although Castiel was just as wary. Crowley’s amiable reaction to Dean left the prince with a rock in his stomach, one that emanated suspicion and doubt. Gadreel’s accusatory words circled around in his mind: _spy._

But the Winchesters could not be spies for Crowley. He refused to believe it. If it were so, why would Crowley expose them by pretending to be coy? Regardless, it still wasn’t clear whether Crowley was behind the attacks on his men in the first place.

Confusion tied Castiel’s thoughts up into tangles until his head began to ache. He pressed two fingers to his temple and heaved a deep breath. When he reopened his eyes, Dean was looking at him with a set, angry jaw, and a glare. It nearly made Castiel reel back.

“Cas,” Dean murmured, and it sent that same wave of joy under Castiel’s skin, “I can explain - I _will_ explain.”

The prince was unsure if he even wanted Dean to explain himself. Something in the air felt foul and he felt frightened of finding the source. “Let us mingle before the announcement,” Castiel said deflectively, putting a hand at the small of Dean’s back. The tunic was silky and warm against his fingers as he guided Dean throughout the crowd.

Dean was unprepared and flustered, neglecting his normally impeccable highborn speech in favor of rude, short sentences, and nervous laughter. Castiel found himself less embarrassed than concerned, ushering Dean away from awkward conversations with a raised eyebrow.

“You need to focus,” he admonished gently, giving what he hoped was a charming smile to the duke who Dean had just called rotund. 

Dean shook his head rapidly, slight pink across his cheeks. “I’m sorry,” he sighed. “I can’t focus with him here.”

Castiel worried his lip between his teeth. “Would you like to step onto the balcony? I can ensure privacy.”

He was rewarded with an openly exhausted look and slow nod. After a quick scan of the ballroom to locate Sam (at the decadent buffet table, happily nibbling on sourdough bread and surely charming the dowager he was speaking to), they made their way to the stone archway leading out to the cobblestone ramparts. 

Castiel told the guards at the entrance to deny anyone interrupting their business discussion. The knowing look he received nearly caused a blush to break out on his cheeks. “I do have some dignity,” he argued, but Dean was tugging him outside.

The sun was setting over the green hilltops in the distance, casting a red-orange glow across the winding Kingsroad. The air was tepid with dusk, still and sweet-smelling as they walked to the stony edge of the balcony and rest their arms against the cooling stone. 

Dean was quiet as he surveyed the view, tiny tendrils of smokestacks marking each family in the village due for supper. There was little sound this high up, save for the muffled pleasantries in the Great Hall at their backs. 

Patience wearing thin, Castiel turned to Dean expectantly in an attempt to ignore the rising tension between them. Even this angry, even this nervous, Dean still looked so handsome and kind in the light of the setting sun that Castiel felt the urge to move closer. He remained still.

“I’m not allied with Crowley,” Dean finally said, breaking the silence. It was a relief to hear Dean say it, but Castiel was taught quite young to never take a stranger at his word. He nodded minutely to show that he had heard. “I don’t want to tell you.”

Dean sounded so young, his eyes wide and vulnerable. There was fear in his tone. Castiel did not like hearing it but he knew he must implore Dean to continue, or Gadreel would force them from the castle.

“Dean,” he said softly, “if I am to protect you, there must be honesty between us.” 

“I know.”

The silence was so heavy that Dean’s quick intake of breath nearly startled Castiel off the edge of the balcony.

“You’ve heard of the Culling,” he stated, not even allowing it to be a question.

Castiel had. When he was young, perhaps fourteen, the disgraced king Azazel had made an attempt on three noble families in his own Southern Kingdom. The Harvelles, the Campbells, and the Moores all suffered deep casualties in their duchies. The families lay in ruin in the wake of the battles. 

Crowley, a Knight Commander during the siege, refused to lead the charge and defied his King’s orders. When Azazel fell to Castiel’s father’s sword, Crowley inherited the throne.

For years, the citizens of the Southern Kingdom were mistrustful of their leadership. Crowley swore to protect them and, to his credit, renewed the peace treaty with the Realm of Heaven. He had kept peace within its walls for decades.

King Crowley was a firm leader but remained loyal to his treaties and contracts. His integrity did nothing to assuage the fears of his citizens, still marred by the scars of the Culling. There were still occasional uprisings and revolts, exoduses, riots. Crowley’s rule usually quelled these events with the highest punishments; the whispers in the roads did nothing for the Southern Kingdom’s prosperity.

In answer, Castiel nodded. “Of course.” The answer did nothing in way of explaining Dean’s connection to King Crowley. Or worse, if he’d somehow escaped punishment. Castiel’s eyebrows narrowed. “Would he have you dead?”

Dean’s casual shrug of one shoulder. “No more likely than him wanting you dead.”

“We don’t know if he wants me dead,” Castiel hissed through clenched teeth. The sun was just beginning to disappear under the hill, casting blue shadows across Dean’s cheeks. “If it’s dangerous to have him here-.”

Dean whirled on Castiel. “Of course it’s dangerous,” he said, eyes flashing. “We all told you - we _insisted_ that you shouldn’t invite him. But you don’t care if it’s dangerous.”

A cold, wet trickle of shame dripped down Castiel’s spine. “If you had told me you had a past with him, I would have re-examined my strategy,” he said softly. Dean made a loud, frustrated noise.

“I’m not in trouble,” he sighed, exasperation oozing from him. “He’s inciting war on your kingdom! Why don’t you seem to care?”

Castiel was deeply confused. The concern that Dean felt so fiercely was directed at _him_ , but - “You _know_ him,” Castiel blurted, too baffled by the lack of information to be delicate any longer. “If you’ve been exiled he could capture you and try you back in the Southern Kingdom. You could die and I couldn’t do anything to stop it.”

The words rang out between them, Castiel’s desperation echoing off the cobblestone walls. Dean looked stunned, saucer-wide eyes accompanying a gentle stumble backward. Castiel only wanted to pull him closer.

“Cas,” Dean muttered, managing to sound both affectionate and irritated. “You don’t have to worry about me. You need to worry about your kingdom.”

“And you need to stop commanding your Prince,” Castiel shot back, fists clenching at his sides. If he expected himself to not concern himself with Dean he would be deceiving what he knew to be true. Anyone with eyesight could have seen the way Castiel had fallen over their time together at the castle, however brief. 

Dean chuckled and laced his fingers with Castiel’s as he took a step forward. “You are not my Prince.”

Castiel had heard those words spat from the mouths of angry citizens, rage and fury-filled, but from Dean, there was not a trace of disdain. Without any idea how to reply, Castiel merely looked to the ground between them, brows furrowed.

He still hadn’t any idea what was happening. He felt as if his life had been knocked off-balance since the moment he saw Dean smuggling fish in the market, dirty and red with anger. He had so many questions that may not have had answers and he could not make sense of any of it.

He felt two fingers press up under his chin, tilting his face up. Dean was smiling, tired, and warm as he kissed Castiel softly. “I am not defying you,” he said, firm. “I’m stating fact.”

“From where do you hail, Dean Winchester?” Castiel asked, finally meeting Dean’s eyes. They were an inch apart, Dean’s warm breath smelling of wine soft against his mouth.

Dean bowed, only slightly, just an incline of his head and a brief closing of his eyes. “From the Southern Kingdom,” he murmured, “I am the rightful heir to the Campbell duchies.”

His heart was near-still in his chest. “Duke Campbell,” he managed to say, his voice just a hair above a whisper.

“Samuel Campbell was my grandfather,” Dean explained. “My family died in the Culling. Sam and I…,” he trailed off for a moment, but Castiel fixed him with an intense gaze that threatened harm if he stopped. “We escaped, through no innocent means.”

“You escaped to our kingdom,” Castiel supplemented. “And lived as peasants.”

Dean only nodded. 

“But _why?_ ”

The shame was clear; etched between Dean’s pinched eyebrows. “Crowley’s kingdom is in danger of mutiny.”

“But Azazel is dead.”

“He may be dead, but his movement persists,” Dean said with a heaviness Castiel could not comprehend. He was angry, and sad, and filled to the brim with frustration. “You think those riots, those whispers of revolution come from nowhere? It’s them.”

Such poison on Dean’s tongue as he spoke, rage that curled his hands into fists at his sides. He looked so tired like this, and Castiel ached to pull him in and hold him. “You’re safe here,” he murmured. “We’ll keep you safe.”

“And you?” Dean shot back, the anger rumbling there again. “Crowley knows who I am, Cas. The doubts of his people would stop immediately if he was able to restore the rightful heirs to the Campbell land.”

Castiel blinked the confusion from his eyes as revelation finally dawned on him. Dean wanted to be his own man so badly, refused to be under Crowley’s thumb so vehemently, that he’d live as a beggar. To protect Sam from the same fate, he’d hide and lie and steal just so they would not be found.

Affection blanketed Castiel and he did draw Dean in, then, into a fierce hug. Dean briefly pressed his face into Castiel’s collared neck, rubbing his cheek against the material there. He kissed the skin below Cas’ jaw, his breath warm and relieved. 

“Does Sam know to stay away from him?” Castiel asked suddenly, looking over his shoulder.

“Crowley knows to stay away from Sam,” Dean said, his voice gravelly and mad, like he was speaking from experience. Dean pulled back, keeping his arms looped around Castiel’s waist. “I’m worried Crowley attacked your men as a message to give us back.”

Castiel laughed without any humor in his voice, pulling Dean back into the embrace.

“If Crowley wants to start a war over you and Sam, I will arm and fight in the battle myself.”

\\\\\

They rejoined the ball after some quiet moments. Dean hadn’t responded to Castiel’s declaration with words, but he had certainly shown his appreciation. The ball had hardly missed them, dancers still dancing and music still jovially attempting to keep up. 

Dean immediately scanned the room for Sam and found him refusing a goblet of wine from someone who looked older than their father. They swept in, Dean looping an arm around Sam’s shoulders and Castiel issuing a hasty apology to the unknown man. 

“Thank you,” Sam breathed out, eyes wide. “I didn’t know what to do. He was so polite.”

Dean chuckled. “Missing your ever-present knight-guard, Sammy?” 

The bright red that stained Sam’s cheeks was more telling than his stuttered response. “It’s not like that, Dean,” he argued so weakly that even Castiel had to smile a bit. Gadreel had shown such a penchant for the boy that he would be surprised if they didn’t gravitate toward each other, the more time they spent with one another.

King Crowley was at the head table, surveying the room with a very relaxed smirk. His eyes fell on where the three of them stood and his eyebrows raised as he tipped his goblet. Dean tensed next to Castiel and the prince felt a surge of distaste, sure it was written on his face.

Alastair, at Crowley’s side, simply grinned.

“They won’t take you,” Castiel murmured into Dean’s ear.

Before Dean could reply, a resounding hush fell over the room. Castiel felt panic strike him before the familiar horn of his cryer resounded. 

“Please welcome your royal Prince, Castiel, and his guest of the evening: Duke Dean Winchester.” Inias’ voice echoed and applause broke out as Castiel took Dean’s hand and led him to the raised thrones at the head of the room. He was met with a sea of faces, some pleased, others polite, some with their noses turned up. 

“Welcome,” he announced loudly. Dean stood tall at his side, arms folded behind his back with a smile on his face. Sam beamed from the foyer.

Crowley remained seated, gnawing on a chicken leg.

“This evening is special in many ways,” Castiel went on, grasping the goblet of ale at his throne. He passed it to Dean and before he could blink, his cupbearer was pressing another into his hands. “As we have invited King Crowley here tonight to demonstrate and remind the people of our union to their countrymen, another union is to be announced.”

Murmurs broke out over the crowd like raindrops. 

“Many of you are regretting the absence of my father, myself included, particularly in judicial matters.”

Castiel felt Dean bristle at the answering agreement.

“I am hoping,” Castiel interrupted a bit sharply, “that you will all welcome the introduction of my betrothed, Duke Dean Winchester of the Southern Lands.” 

Cheers broke out in a way that Castiel could not discern the sincerity, but faces seemed to shine with hope. Dean was taken aback by the response, even as Castiel took his hand and squeezed it reassuringly. 

“Our kingdom will benefit from his aid,” Castiel continued, stroking a thumb over Dean’s knuckles. “He is viciously intelligent and will not hesitate to throw tomato thieves to the gallows, where I would grant them a bushel.” 

Hesitant laughter peppered the crowd.

“That is enough decor for the evening,” Castiel said, “drink mead, dance. And greet your new leader, if you get a moment. He is quite charming.”

“Don’t brand me with that title,” Dean complained loudly, and the patrons of the ball laughed with delight as the music returned. Castiel raised his goblet to Dean’s, and they drank deeply. A squeak audibly left Castiel’s throat as Dean drew him in by the waist and planted a chaste, theatrical kiss on his mouth.

Castiel chanced a glance at Crowley who was still smiling, wiping the back of his mouth with a kerchief, though Alastair looked incredibly displeased.

“We should dance,” Castiel whispered to Dean. “I taught you this one. Although it’s become increasingly apparent why you are such a quick learner.”

Dean winked as they went to the dance floor.

///

Crowley didn’t approach them until the evening had dwindled and Dean had fended off the crowd with impressive dedication. He knew when to make naughty jokes regarding the prince and when to be upstanding, polite, and serious. Castiel preferred him at the former but so enjoyed watching him in the latter. 

But soon enough, the King had cut through the crowd and stood in front of them, an easy smile on his face. “To the betrothed,” he said, raising his goblet.

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Castiel replied politely, tampering down his ire. “Your blessing is welcome.”

Dean’s hand tightened on Castiel’s waist. “Thank you for coming, Your Majesty.”

“Yes,” Crowley said with a raised eyebrow, turning toward Dean, “how could I miss such a radical change? It’s Winchester, now, is it?”

Dean surged forward and shrank back so quickly that Castiel was afraid he might trip. “For now,” he answered evenly. 

“We know you attacked my patrols,” Castiel said bluntly. “If you would prefer to discuss this privately-”

Crowley then started laughing, openly, boisterously. “If you think I had anything to do with that, you really do need help running your country.”

This did nothing to aid Castiel’s annoyance. His eyes flickered to Dean, who was clearly seeking out Sam in the crowd. “I know everything, Crowley,” Castiel whispered haughtily. Crowley furrowed his brow and gestured for Cas to continue. “Dean is now a part of this court and if you-”

“Please,” Crowley said sharply. “Don’t embarrass yourself. As if I would start a war with a neighboring kingdom over this man.” Crowley gave a mock bow, hand twirl and all. “I bequeath Sam and Dean Cam-, er, Winchester, to you, Prince Castiel. You can have the idiots.”

An air of confusion hang heavily between them. Castiel could sense Crowley’s impatience but he didn’t understand why. Eventually, blessedly, Crowley just sighed.

“I have no interest in breaking our treaty,” he said wearily. “I am just as interested in finding out why my men attacked your people as you are.”

“Liar,” Dean began, but Castiel held up a hand. 

“Enough,” he said with a definite tone. “This is not the place to argue. I invited King Crowley here as a measure of peace which he has done nothing but match. Crowley, do you agree that Dean and Sam are safe within my kingdom?”

“Yes,” Crowley said boredly. “Although I cannot begin understand why you even care.”

Castiel didn’t address the second part of Crowley’s statement. “Then your presence is welcome. We will investigate the deaths of my men after the ball.”

“We may not have that luxury,” Dean said suddenly, hand clasping Castiel’s shoulder. “Where’s Sam?”

A quick glance around the room showed that Sam was indeed missing from the hall. Castiel did another search for Gadreel, one that proved useless as the knight-guard was shouldering his way through the crowd toward them, elbowing a Marquis particularly rudely. He stopped in front of them, breathless, eyes darting between Crowley and Castiel.

“Sam has been taken,” he said angrily, “by his man Alastair.” 

“I knew it,” Dean growled, but Crowley’s knit eyebrows clearly showed his surprise.

“I didn’t command this,” he murmured in bewilderment. “Alastair is defecting. I suppose I should have seen it coming, the man has Hell written all over his face.” 

Dean and Gadreel were talking heatedly, planning, Castiel realized. Setting up a search perimeter, gathering horses. “They can’t have made it far,” Gadreel said, shifting and placing his helm over his head. 

Castiel turned to Crowley’s. “Where were your horses?”

“At your stables,” the king answered at once. “Alastair rides an enormous black steed. Your quartermaster was ass-over-teakettle to tend to him.” 

“That will be hard to see in the dark,” Dean said, “we have to go now.”

“Let me inform Balthazar,” Castiel said hastily. “He will want to inform the guests of my departure.”

Dean shifted uncomfortably. “Castiel, I’m not sure you should join us. It’s going to be dangerous.”

The shock was cold on Castiel’s skin. He was unsure if Dean was trying to protecting him or if he didn’t believe Castiel would be of any aid to them. Either way, Dean was wrong, and Castiel would have none of it.

“I’m coming,” he said firmly. “And if he has harmed Sam, Alastair will die by my sword.”

Dean stared at him, his round, green eyes softening into something Castiel didn’t recognize on his face. He looked frightened. “We’ll dress the horses,” he said softly, and nodded toward Gadreel.

Balthazar took some convincing ("You must let me tell Victor-" "Under no circumstances are you to tell Victor." "You sure know how to ruin a party, Your Majesty." "My deepest apologies."), but soon Castiel was joining the group at the stables. His horse, Clarence, was at Bobby’s side as the quartermaster saddled him. Dean and Gadreel were already astride their horses, and in the evening light, looked fierce against the blue-black sky.

Dean was dressed in a sturdy leather breastplate, probably passed to him by Gadreel from the armory. Fighting one man would not require full armor, Castiel knew, but Dean still looked woefully underprepared. Handsome, certainly, but vulnerable.

Bobby settled a leather cuirass over Castiel’s shoulders and fastened it at his side. “You gotta wear something,” the man grumbled at him. “Idjits running out into battle without proper armor, you kiddin’ me?”

So, Bobby had fit Dean with the armor. Castiel gave him a small, affectionate smile, and mounted his horse. Even heading into what would inevitably end in blood, Castiel felt like he truly had something to defend.

They had deduced that Alastair would want to cross the country border so that Castiel would not have the power to command Sam back to safety without threatening the treaty. They galloped toward the nearest border, speaking only to give direction.

Dean was devastatingly focused, riding with intense determination and a set jaw. Castiel would have been worried about him if he wasn’t so worried for Sam, instead, and if he wasn’t still a bit stung from Dean’s earlier comment.

In no world would Castiel have stayed behind while Dean went into a fight, even if he did have Gadreel with him. Especially not one with such a high risk, such high emotional components. 

They rode for miles, trees whipping past them as their horses’ hooves slammed into the damp dirt below them. There was no sign of Sam or Alastair, just the cool thin air chilling their bones. The horses began to wane around the third hour, panting and exhausted, and Gadreel called a halt.

“They need to rest,” he said firmly.

“No,” Dean growled, and tried to edge his horse around Gadreel’s. Castiel gently brought Clarence to a halt and noticed the fur, wet with sweat, just under the horn of the saddle. He patted the horses’ neck soothingly.

“She’ll be of no use to you collapsed,” the knight said flatly.”We rest. Alastair will have to do the same, we will not lose ground on them.”

Dean stared Gadreel down for a few moments, then startled as Castiel dismounted. “Cas-”

“He’s right, Dean. Come on, let them rest and drink. We’ll do the same.” He offered Dean what he hoped was a convincing smile. He saw the tension drain from Dean’s shoulders and he, too, dismounted, his boots thudding to the forest floor with resignation.

They tied their horses near the cool river and allowed them to bow their heads and drink. Gadreel stood near them, shooting Castiel a purposeful nod as his eyes flicked to Dean. Castiel sighed, coming up behind the man and resting his hands on his shoulders.

Dean jumped at first but leaned into the touch once he relaxed, bowing his head. “We have to find him, Cas.”

“We will,” Castiel said assuringly, pressing his thumbs into the muscles above Dean’s shoulder blades. “Sam will be returned to us, I promise you.”

“You can’t promise that,” Dean mumbled, and Castiel could feel his heart breaking. He turned Dean around so they were facing each other and wound his arms around Dean’s waist. Dean dropped his forehead to Castiel’s shoulder, eyelashes brushing against his neck. He was weary and scared and when he wrapped Castiel up into a hug, all the prince could do was kiss him on the top of his head.

Dean sighed and pulled back, resting his forehead against Castiel’s and maintaining their closeness. “It’s my fault he’s in this mess,” he admitted quietly. “I’m the one who took him away. Crowley, maybe he wouldn’t have treated us so bad.”

“You gave him an independent life,” Castiel argued gently.

Dean laughed dryly, smoothing his hands down the front of Castiel’s cuirass. “A life in the streets, as beggars, as thieves.”

“As free men,” Castiel amended.

There was a pause, then, and Dean caught Cas’ gaze with his own. He moved forward suddenly, kissing Castiel with such vehemence that Castiel reeled back a bit. He caught up quickly and began to kiss back, slow and hard, pouring all the comfort and hope he could into it.

Dean pulled back a moment later, breath coming ragged. “Thank you,” he said sincerely, kissing the side of Castiel’s lips. “Thank you for what you’ve done.”

Castiel smiled and cupped Dean’s cheek. “You say that as if it’s goodbye.”

He’d meant it as a joke, mostly, but Dean did not have a matching smile. He just pulled Castiel in and held him, the soft sounds of the horses lapping up water echoing against the trees. Crickets sang around them, cool breeze rustling through the full trees. It almost felt peaceful, for a moment.

They rest with their backs against an old oak, Castiel with his head on Dean’s shoulder. He had not meant to fall asleep, but Dean’s warm embrace and the quiet sounds of the woods had him nodding off into a light cat nap.

When he awoke, the sun was threatening to peek over the canopy, and he was on his feet in an instant. Gadreel was hastily saddling his horse, but Dean -

Dean’s horse was gone, Dean was gone.

“Where is he?” Castiel demanded as he stomped toward Gadreel, panicked and hoarse. “Where is his mount?”

“Gone,” Gadreel said simply. “I believe he took a different course than we’d intended.”

“Why would he leave us behind?” Castiel said, not realizing how pathetic it sounded until the words rang aloud. 

Gadreel gave him a sidelong look, perhaps a hint of pity behind his eyes. “I believe he wanted to keep you out of danger.”

Castiel was _angry_. Betrayal sunk deep into his skin and his fists curled with it, eyes falling shut. “We’re going after him.”

His knight-guard nearly threw his horse’s reins down. “Your Majesty, we must go after Sam. That scum, Alastair, we don’t have a clue what he’s capable of-.”

“If we go after Dean, we’ll find Sam,” Castiel said firmly. “He knew something we didn’t and neglected to share it. Can you track him?”

Gadreel snorted. “He may as well have painted an arrow guiding his path.”

He still didn’t look convinced, and Castiel was finding it difficult to care. Gadreel would have to listen to him in the end. Castiel wasn’t going to leave Dean alone against Alastair and he was going to find Sam, even if it killed him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> all the expository storytelling!  
> next part last part!  
> as always, a big thank you to [Michelle](http://unholyseraphs.tumblr.com) for betaing!


	5. Chapter 5

When Castiel was a child, his father used to gather him up in his arms and carry him through the castle corridors, relaying fairy tales and epic stories with Castiel as the hero. He would allow Castiel to tug the crown off his head and attempt to wear it, the rim falling somewhere along the bridge of the boy’s nose. And his father would laugh.

His father brought Castiel to court when he was eleven and allowed him to observe the judging. Castiel was so horrified at the verdicts that he locked himself in his chamber for days, eating only what the cupbearer snuck into his room. 

After a week, his father came to him, sat on the edge of his bed, and spoke. He told him that difficult decisions were imperative to running a kingdom, and that death or imprisonment were occasionally necessary. It was just how the world worked.

How else, he asked, was he to send a message to his people that lawbreaking would not be tolerated? How was he to keep his citizens loyal and abiding?

And Castiel listened, and nodded, and hugged his father. 

And Castiel decided then that he would be a better king than his father could ever imagine.

\\\\\

The hunger set in as the sun broke the horizon. Luckily, Gadreel had remembered to pack bread and cheese, and was gracious enough to offer his entire portion to the prince.

Castiel only smiled. “No, Gadreel, we’ll split it,” he admonished affectionately, tearing the bread in two and handing the other half to his knight. “Your generosity will be your downfall.”

With a grunt of agreement, Gadreel solemnly chewed his bread and kicked his horse into a canter. The air between them was still tense but Castiel knew what they were doing was the correct path. Dean’s horse was fast but his trail was clear and Gadreel hardly let them pause at all.

“We’ll find them,” Castiel said aloud, again, for the hundredth time, just to get some of the anxiousness to leave Gadreel’s posture. 

“Your Majesty,” Gadreel began slowly, “you must prepare yourself for the possibility that we don’t.”

Castiel ignored him. There wasn’t a doubt in his mind that they would eventually find the Winchesters.

He wondered briefly about his future without them. The Justicar who would steal the kingdom from under his feet, his father’s supreme disappointment would lead to his ridicule. His power would be stripped from him and he’d be left just a name, a royal placeholder.

And he thought about Dean, maybe dead at Alastair’s hand, maybe jailed and left to live an isolated life with Sam dead in his memory. The thought made Castiel cold under the morning sun, made him lean forward just a bit more on his horse. 

“We must be nearing the southern border,” Castiel wondered, peering ahead. “Why would he go this way?” 

Down the pathway, just beyond the hill incline, Castiel spotted it: Dean’s steed, tied and quiet, grazing patiently. He opened his mouth to point it out but Gadreel was already on top of it, a hand raised in the air to silence the prince.

“There!” Gadreel hissed suddenly, sharply turning his horse to the right and through a brush of trees. Castiel’s heart lept to his throat as he followed, bursting through the trees and into a grassy clearing. 

The first thing he spotted was Sam, curled in the grass, frighteningly still. Before Castiel could dismount, before he could even blink, Gadreel was knelt in the grass and turning Sam over, fingers pressed to his chest to feel for breath.

“Sam,” Gadreel demanded as he thumbed up his throat, cupping his cheek with one large hand. 

Dread grasped Castiel’s heart as he watched, slowly dismounting his horse and hesitating, unsure how he could help even if he wanted to.

“He’s alive,” said a voice from behind them that made ice run through his veins. He whipped around, hand firm on the hilt of his sword, and attempted not to growl.

Alastair was there, and he was not alone.

He had Dean restrained against his chest, one hand holding Dean’s wrists firmly while the other pressed a thin dagger to the soft skin of Dean’s throat. There was no struggle, just rage vibrating off of them both. Castiel was pleased to see the bruise forming around Alastair’s eye, the blood trickling from his lip.

Dean looked so angry. His jaw was set tightly, eyes narrowed to slits as he watched Gadreel gather Sam gingerly into his arms. He held him with an arm tucked under his neck and knees, letting Sam’s face rest against the armor covering his chest. 

“Let him go,” Castiel snapped at Alastair, flexing his fingers on his sword. The chuckle he got in return was low and condescending, Alastair’s grin pressed close to Dean’s neck. Castiel began to unsheath his sword.

“Now,” Alastair drawled, eyes flicking down to Castiel’s movement. “no need for that.”

“Explain to me why I should let you live,” Castiel hissed. “You kidnapped-”

“I _arrested_ a fugitive from my own land,” Alastair corrected, “a right bestowed on me during my knighting. If you deny me this right you are denying the authority of King Crowley.”

Castiel shook his head. Alastair’s words meant nothing to him until he got Dean out of his arms and to safety. “Then I deny it,” he said flatly. “Release him, Alastair.”

“If you unsheathe that sword, you will see his blood,” the knight said, pressing the knife further into Dean’s throat. “I only need to return one of the Campbells to power to see Azazel's vision come to be.”

“If you think you’re taking either one of them, you’ve lost your mind,” Castiel said and began to pull his sword from the hilt. He would see Alastair struck down for his crime, regardless of witness.

“No,” Dean said softly, but the sound of it echoed around the forest clearing. Castiel released his sword like it was touched with flame.

“Dean,” Castiel began, but was immediately cut off by Dean’s sorrowful eyes meeting his.

“Let him take me,” he muttered. 

Castiel’s jaw dropped, he was sure, his eyebrows drawing tight together. Dean’s words may as well have been in a different language, they were so indiscernible to the prince. “Absolutely _not_ ,” he barked.

But Dean was looking down at the ground, then, refusing to meet Castiel’s eyes. “If he takes me, he doesn’t need Sam,” Dean murmured. “They’ll leave him alone. My brother will be safe, finally.”

And there it was. Castiel was now to choose between Dean’s happiness and Dean’s life, between his own happiness and Dean’s begged request, between Sam’s life and Dean’s life. His shoulders sagged. “Dean, no,” he said, surprised himself at how wrecked his voice sounded.

Alastair bestowed them with a laugh. “And here I thought the marriage was a ruse to keep Castiel on the throne,” he grinned. “Never expected actual _feelings_.” He drew out the word and made it seem twisted, unclean. 

“It was good you showed,” Alastair went on, looking toward Gadreel. “The little bastard in your arms hobbled my horse when we stopped for water. The hilt of my sword found the back of his skull.”

The snarl that was rising from Castiel cut off as the blade nicked Dean’s neck, red blossoming and trickling over the silver hilt. Dean flinched minutely but didn’t move from Alastair’s grasp. Castiel’s blood was boiling under his skin, every muscle urging him to get Dean _away_.

It was then when Sam stirred in Gadreel’s arms, his eyes slowly blinking open as he took the scene around him in. Panic-stricken, he started to squirm, shoving at Gadreel, trying to get to his feet. Gadreel kept his grip firm, though, and refused to allow Sam free. “Let me go - Dean!” 

“Sammy, stop,” Dean commanded firmly, and Sam did, immediately. “You’re going to stay here with Gadreel and Castiel, okay?”

“And you,” Sam said, helpless, weakly. “You, too.”

Dean bit his lip, allowing Alastair to move them toward the horses. “No, not me.”

“Cas, stop him,” Sam was begging behind Castiel, “please, don’t let him go. Please.”

Castiel could not bring himself to turn and look at Sam, knowing in his mind’s eye how the boy must have looked in that moment. “Don’t do this, Dean,” he plead, maybe pathetically, maybe he didn’t care. 

“Any of you take a step near me and I’ll never forgive you,” Dean said, sharp and sure. “I’m doing this.” 

Alastair’s smile burned into Castiel like a brand, something ugly and twisted that he’d never forget. “No more bickering. Let us allow the eldest Campbell to make the right choice.”

“What about me, Dean?” Sam said softly. “What am I supposed to do without you? I can’t - I might not ever see you again.”

Dean squeezed his eyes shut, and if Castiel wasn’t mistaken, he may have been shedding tears. If his broken voice was any indication, Castiel was sure he was right. “You’ll be okay,” he said with the barest hint of a sad smile. 

It suddenly hit Castiel that this had been Dean’s plan all along. He would never allow his brother to return to Crowley’s kingdom, and he would do anything to keep him safe - he was so adamant that Castiel realized Dean had likely offered the trade himself.

“It’s time to go,” Alastair said impatiently. “Lady Lilith will be so happy to meet you. Your wedding will be the talk of the kingdom.”

Castiel bristled, but Dean’s head just hung.

“Castiel,” Sam said, terror in voice as he watched Dean and Alastair walk toward the horses. The knight secured a pair of rusty, iron shackles on Dean’s wrists and sheathed his dagger. “Don’t. Don’t let him - Dean! Stop!”

“Calm down,” Gadreel grumbled, and when Sam fell silent Castiel could sense the betrayal the boy felt. 

“I can’t believe you’re letting him do this,” he whispered, and guilt rose up hot and shameful in Castiel’s stomach. Alastair heaved Dean onto his steed and mounted in front of him, forcing his prisoner to lean against him and grasp onto his tunic for purchase. Alastair positively beamed.

“You will suffer for this, Alastair,” Castiel declared. The knight raised a shoulder dismissively.

“It appears it’s Dean’s decision as much as mine, will you punish him as well?” He asked, clicking his tongue to turn the horse toward the path to the Southern kingdom. 

Castiel met Dean’s eyes, then, something unreadable in them. Something like defeat. Something dull and resigned, and it made bile rise in Castiel’s throat.

“No need,” he muttered, watching as they began to trot away. “He has punished himself enough.”

\\\\\

The ride back to the castle was very quiet, punctuated by Sam’s soft grunts of anger. He was riding behind Gadreel, arms wound around his waist, seemingly incapable of opening his eyes. He was unreceptive to any comfort either Castiel or his knight attempted to offer.

They reached the gates by midafternoon, riding up to the stables, where Singer spilled out of the doors frantically. “You boys make it back in one piece?” He said, then clearly only counted the three of them and took in Sam’s miserable face. “Oh.”

“Dean’s alive,” Castiel said with a swift dismount. “He has returned to Crowley’s kingdom with Alastair of his own volition.”

Singer’s expression was pitying, and Castiel could hardly stand to look at it. He turned to Sam, who was still leaning into Gadreel with devastation. He sighed and clapped a hand down on the boy’s shoulder. “Do you want to help me tend the horses, Sam? They need grooming after such a long ride.”

There was a brief moment where Sam looked almost normal again, but he was crestfallen within seconds. “Singer, there’s an injured horse in the woods. I - I had to break its leg, I-” he sounded like he was confessing to his greatest sin and Castiel could feel his heart sinking.

“Okay, okay,” Bobby said soothingly. “I’ll send some stablehands out to retrieve it. We have a transport cart that should hold it just fine.”

Sam nodded dutifully, then turned to Castiel. “I’d like to stay and help Singer,” he said quietly. “Can I do that?”

“Of course.” Castiel would be forever grateful to Singer for spotting what needed to happen. He felt helpless with Sam, unsure what his role was in comforting him. He still turned to Castiel for guidance, it seemed, so he would try to give it the best way he could in Dean’s absence. 

His _temporary_ absence.

Gadreel bowed to Sam and they shared an unreadable look as Gadreel turned to follow Castiel to the castle. “He’s angry with me,” Gadreel said after a moment. He was distraught by this; it was clear in his tone.

“He’ll be all right,” Castiel assured him. “He’s upset. You must keep watch over him, Gadreel.” Castiel had a feeling Sam was the type to steal after his brother as soon as they had their backs turned. “I don’t want him attempting to rescue Dean alone.”

Gadreel peered at him. “You mean you don’t want him trying to rescue him at all,” he corrected tentatively. Castiel shook his head.

“We will not abide kidnapping,” he said fiercely. “We will see Dean returned. And before he’s married off to a woman he’s never met.” The last part was for his own piece of mind, but Gadreel did not look convinced. It didn’t matter to Castiel, however, what anyone thought of his priorities.

Balthazar ambushed him as soon as he reached the castle doors, holding armfuls of parchments. “Your Majesty,” he said breathlessly, “you must read these letters of thanks. The addition of the Winchesters to the court has your people _enthralled_.”

“Dean Winchester has been taken under the false decree of King Crowley’s knight,” Castiel told him. Balthazar nearly dropped his parchment, blinking slowly at Castiel.

“Excuse me?” He blustered. “That’s the reason you dove off into the night, then?”

Castiel recounted the story to Balthazar as they made their way to the war room. Michael arrived with Henricksen after a short time, looking furious. 

“The duke was your only chance at retaining your sovereignty, Your Majesty,” Michael said desperately, pinching the bridge of his nose. 

Castiel turned on him, his fists clenched tightly at his side as he advanced on him. “Are you scolding me for the kidnapping of my betrothed?” He fumed, and Michael thankfully shrank back down from him. “This is the act of a singular man. King Crowley denies involvement.”

“He’s lying,” Henricksen said instantly. “He’s a liar, Your Majesty. We should march on his castle and demand return of the Duke.”

Gadreel shook his head. “That won’t work. The Duke wishes to remain in the Southern Kingdom.”

The silence in the room was so charged that Castiel could not take it. “He believes he’s saving his brother’s life,” he explained, unable to meet the questioning gazes sent his way. “What we need to do is remove the threat on their lives.”

“Another peaceful solution,” Michael spat. “That will achieve nothing.”

“You may leave,” Castiel dismissed, gesturing vaguely toward the door. “Your input is unnecessary.”

Michael did leave, thankfully, and without another word. Castiel put his head in his hands and thought of those epic tales his father used to tell him when he was a child. The ones in which a knight, blessed by the heavens and armed with the fiercest weapons, stormed castles and saved those they loved by slaying all in their path.

He could not do that. Dean refused to be saved. But Castiel could not live in the castle knowing Dean was miserable, and he could not allow to watch Sam wither under the tragedy of losing his brother for political gain.

“What would my father do?” Castiel asked nobody.

“Declare war, storm the castle, and collect the Duke against his will,” Balthazar said with a touch of affection in his voice. Castiel resisted the urge to groan and instead sat heavily in the chair at the table. 

“In no tale I’ve ever heard has the hero attempted to reason with the enemy,” he said gloomily. “I have no historical guidance.”

“You have us,” Balthazar said, nodding toward Henricksen and Gadreel. “Hell, bring Seneschal Milton into the talks. If she can make gold and green work together, she can do anything.”

Castiel chuckled unexpectedly. 

“You need sleep, Your Majesty,” Gadreel said. “You’ve been up for hours. Take rest and we’ll resume talks at another time. Dean’s life is not in danger and there is nothing we can do at present.”

Castiel knew that he was right.

He slept restlessly. Dean had been by his side for the past two weeks, and the lack of his presence was glaring and distracting. He’d gotten used to Dean’s breath on his neck, the weight of his arm across Castiel’s hips. 

He did eventually fall asleep, however, as his exhaustion caught up to him. He dreamt of the forest floor, the smell of grass and mud. Dean was with him, but far enough away that Castiel was unable to touch him.

Castiel saw Sam again at breakfast the following morning. He looked just as haggard as Castiel felt, with dark circles under his red-rimmed eyes. Castiel beckoned him to sit closer, relishing in the very gentle smile that Sam offered him as he moved to take Michael’s empty seat near the head of the table.

“Did you sleep?” Castiel asked the young man, but Sam shook his head, mushing his porridge with the butt of his spoon. The prince lowered his voice, leaning in toward Sam conspiratorially. “We will see him returned,” he whispered. 

Sam’s eyes widened with surprise as he let his spoon dropped. “Really? But-” he furrowed his brow. “You let Alastair take him. You…” The accusation hung in the air between them; _you gave up on him_ unspoken but louder than Castiel could take.

“It needed to happen,” Castiel explained patiently. “If we hadn’t, one of you would have ended up dead.” Sam nodded, fists still clenched on top of the table. “We will not leave Dean in his hands.”

A heavy sigh, filled with far too much weariness for his age, escaped Sam’s lungs. “But Dean doesn’t want to leave,” he said angrily. “He thinks he’s saving me. But I don’t want to be here without him!”

He winced at his own words, bowing his head as he looked to Castiel. “I don’t mean to sound ungrateful,” he continued shamefully.

Cas only smiled, reaching out to touch Sam’s forearm. “You don’t,” he assured him. “You sound concerned.”

“I miss him, Cas,” Sam said softly and began to spoon at his porridge. “I know it’s silly, but I can tell he isn’t here, and it’s like the sun hasn’t come up.”

A wave of sorrow washes over Castiel as he watches the young man take a few bites of his breakfast, avoiding the golden raisins sprinkled on top. His eyes flick to Gadreel, standing dutifully at the archway, face staunchly forward with his hands folded at his back. The picture of dignity. 

“I don’t want to be here without him, either,” Castiel admitted. “And as prince, I can have whatever I wish.”

 

Sam laughed softly at that, and Castiel counted it as a small victory.

 

\\\\\

“A word?”

Gadreel bowed toward the prince, nodding for him to join him in the castle garden. Castiel agreed and followed him to the cobblestone pathway that wound through the hedges. He looked to Gadreel expectantly.

“How does the planning fare?” The knight asked him curiously. Castiel sighed.

The meetings in the war room were becoming more frequent and more frustrating for the prince. He often sat staring at the map while Henricksen and Balthazar bickered over something, leaving his opinions in his mind. Michael had not shown for several days, choosing to bustle unnoticed, and his presence was not missed.

“Not productively,” the prince answered with despondency. “We have many ideas, but none of them are executable.”

Gadreel hummed thoughtfully. “May I suggest bringing Sam into the talks?” He saw Castiel’s furrowed brow, and turned to explain himself. “He is very passionate about returning Dean to our kingdom, and he is brimming with suggestions.”

Castiel smiled very small. “You’ve been spending time with Sam, then?” He asked airly.

“He cannot spend all his time with horses,” Gadreel grunted. Castiel laughed and clapped a hand down onto his knight’s armored shoulder.

“I will extend Sam an invitation. Would you like to deliver the message?”

Gadreel’s lips quirked up in a smile so brief that Castiel wasn’t sure it was ever there in the first place. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

He took his leave and Castiel stood quietly in the garden, trailing his fingertips along the pale orchids arcing delicately above his head. The petals were soft like the skin just above the cut of Dean’s hip, untouched and silken. 

Castiel thought of Dean’s mouth, which would always rest wet and warm against his neck while they slept. When they awoke, Dean would slide his lips from Castiel’s neck to his ear, press his smile against Castiel’s cheek, hum.

There hadn’t been a morning since Dean’s absence that Castiel didn’t miss him. 

He recalled the evening before the ball when Dean had pressed him into the feathery bed, had laid that mouth over each inch of Castiel that he could reach, had stroked his long fingers along every exposed bit of Castiel’s skin. 

The prince dropped his hand from the flower, squeezing his eyes tightly shut. He had to find a solution before he heard news of Dean’s wedding to Lady Lilith. Dean belonged here, with Sam, with _him_ , and it was time to make that happen.

\\\\\

Sam joining the talks was awkward at first.

“Michael will be livid that he was replaced by a squire,” Balthazar laughed upon Sam’s arrival. The red flare in Sam’s cheeks made Castiel bristle with annoyance.

“Address Duke Winchester with respect, Balthazar,” he admonished gently. Balthazar had the good grace to bow and murmur an apology, which Sam accepted graciously.

“Any news?” Castiel began, as he always did, and prayed, as he always did, that the answer would be no. 

“Nothing of importance,” Henricksen reported stiffly. “No movements in the southern territories. No more casualties.”

“No wedding announcements,” Balthazar said, clearly noting Castiel’s unease. 

Castiel turned to Sam, who was sitting shyly next to him, peering at the table. His eyes were whipping over it furiously, taking in movements, calculating. He was learning it as he read it, something Castiel found endlessly impressive. “Sam?”

The boy’s eyes flicked to Castiel, but he bit on his bottom lip and didn’t reply. Castiel took a deep breath.

“Sam, if you’re going to be part of these talks, we require your input.” 

He was met with a nod, and Sam’s jaw set firmly. “What does Alastair’s gain by bringing Dean back?” He asked the room.

Balthazar pursed his lips. “It shows that Crowley’s kingdom is strong,” he said slowly, “that the beloved lost Campbell family is still alive, well, and protected.”

“It hushes the unrest,” Henricksen said. “Inspires hope in Crowley’s people where it had been lost.”

“It weakens the revolution,” Castiel finished, “calms the rioters, quiets the conspirators.”

“So,” Sam continued, “how does he achieve that without Dean?”

Quiet fell over the room. Sam was looking at the situation upside down, looking from the end to the front; it was a strategy that none in the room had considered. They were all focused on _action_ and had forgotten to consider _consequence_.

Castiel stood swiftly. “We endorse Crowley.”

Balthazar nearly dropped his clipboard. “Your Majesty, you cannot consider that. We have a peace treaty with them because of a thousand-year war!. They are vile, mistrustful-”

“And you are judgemental,” Castiel said sharply. “We burn the treaty as a sign of goodwill. We tell the people of our kingdom and theirs that we don’t need paper to trust one another.”

Henricksen stared at him. “Your citizens will lose all faith in you, Your Majesty.”

“I don’t care,” Castiel said fiercely, and then cleared his throat. “I’ve already lost favor with them. Dean is the only thing that gained it back.”

Sam had tucked his hand into Castiel’s before the prince had even noticed it. He squeezed it lightly. He felt a surge of confidence spark through him at Sam’s support and he nodded firmly as he met Balthazar’s wary eyes.

“Send a crow to King Crowley,” he commanded as he stood from his seat. Sam’s hand slipped from his as he followed suit, standing tall and proud next to Castiel at the table. “Tell him of our intention and ask if he accepts the deal. If so, I will speak to my people.”

“How shall I phrase it, Your Majesty?” Balthazar drawled. “That you are giving up the security of your realm for the sake of one man?”

Castiel simply shrugged a shoulder. “If you must,” he shot back. Balthazar was certainly moments away from rolling his eyes, so he took his leave instead. Henricksen stood at the door, clutching his armored helm.

“Your father will not appreciate this choice, Your Majesty,” he said. “Although I appreciate the intent to avoid bloodshed. Our men will be well-trained no matter the outcome.”

“Thank you,” Castiel said. “Dismissed.”

The air felt different with just he and Sam in the war room. There was a sense of calm, assurance, as if they had finally find the correct path. Dean was first priority for them both and Castiel knew they would sacrifice all they could to have him safe.

“Thank you, Sam,” he said after moment, squeezing the boy’s shoulder. “You solved an unsolvable puzzle for us.”

Sam smiled bashfully. “I’ve had time to think about it.”

“I’m glad Gadreel recommended your presence at these meetings,” said Castiel as he gave Sam a gentle smile. “It was clearly the correct move.”

If Sam went more pink in his cheeks, Castiel would think he was wearing rouge. “Gadreel recommended?” He asked lightly, clearly attempting to appear uninterested. “Oh. How kind of him.”

“Yes,” Castiel agreed. “Be sure to show him your gratitude.”

Sam sputtered in a way that brought laughter to Castiel so genuinely that he hardly knew what to do with it. He wrapped an arm around Sam’s shoulders and lead him from the war room. “Are you hungry? I think we should call for a feast tonight. Tran told me they caught nearly twenty pheasants this week.”

“I like the cook,” Sam said cheerfully. “She allows her son to accompany me to the stables. And she sneaks me extra loaves of the flaxseed breads they make for stews.”

Castiel scoffed. “What, do we starve you?”

“No!” Sam said hurriedly, waving his arms. “No, you feed me well. I just get… hungry.” 

The prince looked from Sam’s feet to the top of his head, raising an eyebrow. “You’ll outgrow us all.”

“I’ll never be as tall as Dean,” Sam grinned. “We joke that he must be part giant.”

An air of sadness fluttered up between them at the lack of Dean’s presence and Castiel had never been more sure that he is on the correct is on the correct path. 

///

Crowley, expectedly, was delighted by the terms of breaking the contract. He sent a crow hastily accepting the terms of breaking the treaty. He did, however, very notably ignore the request for Dean’s release which made Castiel’s hackles rise. 

Henricksen demanded a march which Castiel swiftly struck down. Three crows came from Castiel’s father in rapid succession, all scolding him for his irresponsible choice. Castiel ignored them. His father had not met Dean.

A fortnight passed. Sam had taken to wandering the corridors at night, guided by Gadreel when possible, looking tired and sad by day. Castiel just hoped his presence did something to assuage Sam’s worry; he tried to spend time with him at the stables or at meals. But where Sam had a hand to tuck his in, armored as it may be, Castiel still slept alone. 

Until one evening, when Sam burst into Castiel’s quarters, ignoring the loud protests of his knight behind him. “Cas!”

The prince sat up abruptly, heart in his throat and eyes wild and wide and he turned to Sam. “What is it?”

But Gadreel was talking over him, trying to tug Sam out of the room. “Apologies, Your Majesty, I warned him against-.”

“Sam, what is it?” Castiel interrupted, eyes fixed on the flailing boy.

“I know where Dean is,” Sam breathed, “we have to go. Now.”

Castiel was already out of bed, uncaring of his smallclothes as he went to find breeches in his wardrobe. “Where is he?” He said calmly, dressing as he spoke.

“The forest clearing where you found us with Alastair,” Sam said, words tumbling out like a babbling creek. “It was the first place we rested when we escaped the kingdom after the Culling.” 

Castiel’s brow furrowed as he pulled on a tunic. “Is that how Dean knew to find you there?”

Sam nodded. “I tried to lead Alastair there - when we arrived, I asked for water and hobbled his horse.” His head dipped a little in shame, but Gadreel laid a hand on his shoulder.

“The horse is fine,” the knight assured him, “Singer brought him back to capable.”

The words did seem to make Sam relax, but Castiel was focused on other things. “So if they set him loose, that’s where he would go?”

Sam set his earnest eyes on Castiel. “Alastair wouldn’t allow Dean to just come back here, it would shame him and his movement. He _must_ be hiding out there until we find him.”

“Are you sure?”

Sam’s face said everything Castiel needed to hear. He was determined, positive, and Castiel had already made his decision.

They saddled the horses and set out not long after, the dead of night chilling their bones but pushing them harder. Gadreel had insisted the prince stay back but that was certainly not an option; not when Dean could be just a few short hours from the castle.

Day broke when the clearing was just ahead. The ride had been quiet and fast with limited breaks for their horses. Sam kept casting his worried eyes up to the night sky, as if sending prayers to the Gods that Dean would be there waiting for their arrival.

Sam swung off his horse and tied her, and before Castiel could say a word he took off in a run toward the clearing. Panic swept in Castiel and he was dismounting, catching up to the boy in seconds and grabbing him by his collar.

“Sam!” He hissed, pulling him back a few steps. “You must be more cautious. A trap could be on the other side of those trees.”

“He’s right,” the knight agreed as he walked up, leading both his and Castiel’s horses. “Let me go first.”

Gadreel unsheathed his sword and handed the horses to Castiel to tie. He gave Sam’s shoulder a squeeze, eyes focused on the break in the trees ahead of him. He disappeared through the branches, and Castiel noticed Sam nervously wringing his sleeve. 

“I’m sorry,” Sam whispered, “I’m not trying to get us hurt.”

“I know,” Castiel said placatingly as he secured the horses’ reins to a sturdy oak. “He knows as well. We just like to remind you.”

Sam gave him a watery smile and stepped forward carefully, ears perked to listen. Castiel could not hear anything from beyond the treeline, and he had to admit his curiosity was beginning to overwhelm him. He couldn’t imagine what would take them so long to reappear on their side of the pathway.

A whistle came through the trees. It was a two-note tune; one high, two low. Sam scrambled forward and pursed his lips, whistling clearly and sharply through the quiet forest. Two high, one low. 

Sam waited a beat and when the whistle was returned ( _one high_ -) he burst through the treeline without looking back (- _two low_ ). Castiel heard an ‘oof’ from the other side and decided it was time to follow blindly.

He pushed through the trees and blinked against the sunrise bearing down on him, the light reflecting sharply off of Gadreel’s armor. The knight had his arms crossed over his chest and looked decidedly grumpy, Castiel thought.

And then there was Sam, on the forest floor, moss in his hair and streaked across his cheek. He was roaring with laughter, squirming and struggling under Dean, who had him pinned.

“You see?” Dean was saying through a grin. “This is why you always watch your back, little brother. You can’t go charging into things all bravado and heroism.”

A smile broke out broad on Castiel’s face as Dean got to his feet, holding out a hand for Sam to grasp. Dean brushed off his brother’s shoulders and then finally, blessedly, turned to Castiel.

“Your Majesty,” he bowed, and Castiel gathered him up in his arms, close and unbidden, his face finding the warm crook of Dean’s neck.

Dean laughed and wrapped Castiel in a hug, squeezing tightly before cupping his cheeks and drawing him up for a kiss. Embarrassingly, Castiel’s hands fisted tightly in Dean’s tunic as he attempted to pull him closer, but Dean was already flush against him. He pulled back after a long moment and searched Dean’s smiling eyes, finding something unguarded and joyful.

“I knew you’d find a way,” Dean said reverently. “It was easy to go with him because I knew it.”

“It was Sam.” Castiel was surprised at how fast the words tumbled out of his mouth, he just didn’t want to take full responsibility. “He knew where you’d be. He knew how to solve the crisis between our countries.”

“Not the last part,” Sam murmured. “I just helped.”

Castiel shook his head, then looked back up into Dean’s eyes. “Are you free, then?”

“I am,” Dean nodded. 

“And…” Castiel paused, a horrid thought washing over him. With his debt to his home cleared and his reputation in Castiel’s kingdom golden, Dean had no obligation to come back with them. He could take Sam and start a new life, if he so pleased. “Do you intend to return to the castle?”

Dean rolled his eyes in a way that made Castiel’s stomach flutter. “And miss Sam as the flower girl at our wedding?”

“Hey!” Sam whined, but Castiel barely heard him. He peered at Dean, brow brought up in consternation.

“You still intend to marry me?”

Dean stared at him as if he’d grown a second head. “Of course,” he said as his eyes scanned Castiel’s face with scrutiny. “Castiel, even if we didn’t have an agreement, I would still want to stay with you. Do you believe that?”

And Castiel truly did. 

///

Dean’s return to the castle was met with a feast to dwarf all celebrations the castle had ever seen. The wine flowed freely, pheasant roasted with herb and potatoes served by the platterful. Dean relayed harrowing stories of Lady Lilith and how she looked at him as if she wanted to devour him on the spot.

Castiel bristled at that, but Dean was met with mostly laughter. He was a hero in the eyes of court; sacrificing self for the prince and his brother. Even Gadreel begrudgingly admitted it was an unexpectedly, courageous move.

Balthazar leaned in at one point, asking when the marriage was to be set. He glanced knowingly between Dean and Castiel as he asked, then dropped his gaze to where their hands were clasped over the table.

“I suppose,” he amended, “we aren’t looking to preserve any delicate sensibilities.”

“Have you any of those, Balthazar?” Castiel asked airily. Dean’s laugh was music in Castiel’s ears.

Later, drunk on wine and each other, Dean and Castiel returned to the prince’s chambers.

“I missed this bed,” Dean said, running his hand over the feathery mattress. “I thought of it every night. They had me lay beside Lilith.” 

That put a sour taste in Castiel’s mouth. “Did she touch you?”

Dean chuckled. “No,” he said, relieved. “Thank the Gods. I really think she just wanted to murder me. If we’d been wed, I’m sure she would have killed me eventually.”

“But you won’t be,” Castiel said softly, turning Dean in his arms. “Not to her.” 

“Not to her,” Dean agreed, and they tipped backward onto the forgiving mattress. 

Their kiss was soft at first, something revelatory and relieved. Dean was heavy over Castiel’s body, covering the prince with all of him in every way he could. He kissed at his throat, wet and warm, as he ran his hands up and down Castiel’s sides.

The prince arched under Dean’s hands, wanting to press as close as he could. He tugged Dean’s tunic up and out of his breeches with the sole desire to put his hands all over Dean’s bare skin. 

Dean leaned back and helped, stripping himself and Castiel with the efficiency he’d learned over his time spent in the prince’s bed. Soon, though not soon enough, their bare bodies were pressed flush together and Castiel could not have felt a joy more pure.

“I missed you,” Dean breathed against Castiel’s neck. “I missed how you taste under my tongue.”

He had his hands fit under Cas’ hips and was pulling them up toward his wet, waiting mouth. Castiel’s cock slid so smoothly between Dean’s lips and he let out a sound, something desperate and _loud_.

When Dean sucked him like this, fast and focused, Castiel could never keep his composure. Dean pulled off, pressing his flat tongue to the tip, stroking him slowly. “Your knight will interrupt if he thinks I’m torturing you,” Dean said smugly, taking the head between his plush lips.

“You _are_ ,” Castiel gasped with a weak attempt at keeping his hips still. 

Dean raised an eyebrow and pressed a kiss to the groove of Castiel’s hip. “Am I?” He asked, nipping lightly. Castiel may have nodded, he was unsure, but Dean was chuckling. “Then tell me, Your Majesty, how can I please you?”

It was full of condescension and sarcasm but Castiel wanted nothing more than to hear Dean say those words again. He felt a surge of composure and used it to grip Dean’s shoulders and roll them over. 

“You do something to me,” he began, reaching for the flowery-scented oil at his bedside. He dripped it between them, the cold drops making gooseflesh rise on Dean’s stomach. “I want you to call me your prince, your Majesty,” he licked at Dean’s jaw, nuzzled below his ear as he stroked between Dean’s legs.

Dean rolled into the touch, giving Castiel an open, easy smile. “I can do that.”

“I know,” Castiel continued. He slid two fingers into Dean’s body and reveled in the way Dean’s eyelids fluttered. “But I love you most when you call me Cas.” 

Dean’s legs fell apart, inviting, as a small murmur escaped his lips. Castiel kissed at them as he scissored Dean open, curving his fingers to watch Dean throw his head back in abrupt pleasure. 

He had just said he loved Dean, which was absolutely no falsehood. He needed Dean to know how much, he needed Dean to feel as much of that love he could pour between them. He pressed his fingers in further, mouthing near Dean’s ear. 

“Cas,” Dean mumbled, eyes unfocused and glassy. “More.”

Castiel descended on Dean, then, his fingers slipping out as he went to grab Dean’s wrists. He pressed his cock up against Dean’s slick, open hole and kissed his mouth, swallowing the gasps.

This was something they hadn’t done. The head of Castiel’s dick pressed firmly against Dean’s ass and with just a push, he could slide in. He could show Dean exactly how much he cared, everything he wanted between them.

Castiel pulled back and searched Dean’s lidded eyes. “Dean,” he said softly against Dean’s lips. “Duke Campbell.”

“Duke Winchester,” Dean corrected on a gasp. “I have never been more of a noble than with you.”

Castiel did push in, then, slowly pressing his cock into Dean’s warm body. They both grit their teeth with impatience and oversensitivity, fingers dug into each other as they tried to temper their labored breathing.

After kisses, after tongues, after whispers of _your majesty_ and _dean_ and _cas_ and _duke winchester_ Castiel was finally able to move.

It did start slow, as everything did between them. Castiel was gentle and ran his hands all over Dean’s skin, checking him and double-checking him. Dean made noises that the prince had never heard before. His face would flicker between grin and gasp and Castiel was hypnotized.

And, as everything did between them, it gained such fervor in such little time that Castiel felt he must be dreaming. Before he realized it, he was thrusting fast and grinding deep, his hands tight on Dean’s waist as he pressed him into the mattress on each thrust.

Dean’s hands gripped the feathered mattress so hard that Castiel was concerned he would tear the satin. Not too concerned, though, as he rolled his hips in earnest. “Dean - is that good?”

“Don’t stop,” was all Dean said, eyes just slivers beneath his lids. “Give me more of you.”

Castiel curled his hand around Dean’s dick, which was hard and flushed against his stomach. He felt Dean clench and the rumble of his moan echoed between them before Cas could even stroke him once. 

He did stroke him, though, as fast and unrelenting as his hips. His tongue found Dean’s and they kissed, undulating against one another in frenzied desperation. “I always want this,” Castiel said into Dean’s mouth. “To have you as a part of me.”

Dean hiked a leg up on Castiel’s hip and seemed torn between thrusting forward into the hand on him or pushing back on the cock in him. “M’yours,” Dean murmured. “Was yours as soon as you saw me in the market. Oh, fuck!” 

The curse was surprising and only set Castiel aflame. His hand dug into Dean’s hip as he thrust as fast as his hips would take him; Dean’s hot and frenetic body moving restlessly beneath him. Being this close to Dean was unbearable and everything Castiel needed, and it made his head spin with want. 

“So insufferably perfect,” Castiel moaned, “so frustrating. So, everything.”

Castiel felt Dean seize beneath him before he saw it, saw the hot spurts of come stripe out over Dean’s stomach. His body was so tight around Castiel, hands scrabbling against Cas’ back, looking to grip onto something. Eventually they landed on the back of Castiel’s neck, drawing him in for a deep and filthy kiss while Cas continued thrusting.

“Not leaving,” Dean said, breathless.

And his nose brushed under Castiel’s cheekbone.

“Here,” Dean said into Castiel’s jaw.

And his lips pressed fleetingly against the side of his mouth. 

“Staying,” was Dean’s quiet mutter into Castiel’s ear.

And his tongue was against the hollow of Castiel’s throat. 

“Because I fucking love you,” he groaned as Castiel pushed deep, unrelenting inside of him.

And his hands were at Castiel’s ass, holding him in, holding him still, while Castiel came.

\\\\\

“And thus, they lay carnally together, and it is done,” Balthazar said blithely over porridge, and Castiel nearly choked on a golden raisin. 

“What, just once?” Dean said with disappointment. Castiel then realized that, if this were to be his court going forward, he’d better get used to some comments of that nature.

Gadreel huffed with displeasure behind him, but Sam’s small smile seemed to assuage the knight’s immediate anger. As Sam grew older, Castiel was sure their relationship would grow only stronger. 

The marriage date was set for the equinox, upon which Castiel’s father would return. What he would do with the kingdom as Castiel had been running it was a mystery, but it was unimportant to the prince. He’d become more than he ever thought possible of himself; someone demanding and sure, someone who found peaceful avenues and still achieved his goals. 

Though Castiel knew Dean and Sam were to thank, he knew that neither would accept the praise. They would say Castiel had it in him the entire time. They would say they only encouraged what was already there.

But Castiel knew the truth. 

He turned to Dean, who was wiping his mouth almost delicately with his paper napkin. “Thank you, Dean,” he said earnestly, and saw how Dean’s eyes began to roll. “Stop. Hear me.”

Dean softened, then, and allowed himself a smile. “Well, in that case: thank you, too. And stop!” He laughed, because Castiel’s face was surely pinched. “Hear me,” he said, thumbing some oatmeal off of the prince’s cheek.

“I do,” said Castiel, and that was finally enough for the both of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading to the end, I truly hope you enjoyed!

**Author's Note:**

> Come find me on [tumblr :)](http://dandelionwhiskey.tumblr.com/)  
> I'll add more warnings/characters/tags as the piece progresses.


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